#Small Parcel Shipping

[mastergarryblogs]

Why Same-Day Delivery is the New Gold Standard in the Small Parcel Industry

Introduction

The Global Express and Small Parcel Market is undergoing a transformative expansion, propelled by the relentless surge in e-commerce and the escalating demand for swift, reliable delivery services. In 2024, the market was valued at USD 476.65 billion and is projected to reach USD 832.10 billion by 2031, reflecting a robust compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 8.3%. This growth trajectory is underpinned by factors such as rapid urbanization, technological advancements, and the increasing emphasis on sustainable logistics solutions.​

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Express and Small Parcel Market Dynamics:

E-commerce Expansion Fuels Market Growth

The exponential rise of e-commerce has fundamentally reshaped consumer purchasing behaviors, necessitating the development of efficient parcel delivery networks. Online retail giants like Amazon and Alibaba have set new standards for delivery speed and convenience, compelling logistics providers to enhance their capabilities. In 2021, the global e-commerce market reached a staggering USD 13 trillion, underscoring the immense volume of goods requiring delivery services.

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Urbanization and Population Growth Intensify Delivery Demands

The global shift towards urban living has led to densely populated cities where consumers expect rapid delivery services. This urban concentration amplifies the demand for last-mile delivery solutions, prompting logistics companies to innovate with micro-fulfillment centers and advanced route optimization technologies to navigate congested urban landscapes effectively.​

Technological Innovations Enhance Operational Efficiency

The integration of technologies such as Artificial Intelligence (AI), Internet of Things (IoT), and automation has revolutionized the express and small parcel market. AI-driven analytics facilitate predictive demand forecasting, while IoT-enabled tracking systems provide real-time visibility into parcel movements, enhancing transparency and customer satisfaction. Automation in sorting facilities accelerates processing times, reducing operational costs and errors.​

Sustainability Initiatives Drive Green Logistics

Environmental concerns and stringent regulations have propelled the adoption of sustainable practices within the logistics sector. Companies are investing in electric delivery vehicles, eco-friendly packaging, and carbon offset programs to minimize their environmental footprint. For instance, the deployment of electric light commercial vehicles and e-cargo bikes in urban last-mile delivery is gaining traction, aligning with global sustainability goals.

Express and Small Parcel Market Segmental Analysis:

By Service Type

Standard Delivery: Dominates the express and small parcel market due to its cost-effectiveness and reliability for non-urgent shipments. In 2023, this segment accounted for over 37% of global revenue, driven by businesses and consumers prioritizing affordability.

Express Delivery: Caters to time-sensitive shipments, offering expedited services at a premium price point.​

Same-Day Delivery: Experiencing rapid growth, fueled by consumer expectations for immediate gratification and the proliferation of online shopping platforms.​

By Destination

Domestic Shipments: Comprise the majority share, with an emphasis on enhancing last-mile delivery efficiencies within national borders.​

International Shipments: Gaining momentum due to cross-border e-commerce, necessitating robust customs clearance processes and international logistics networks.​

By Business Model

Business-to-Business (B2B): Dominated the market in 2023, with industries such as manufacturing and retail relying heavily on CEP services for supply chain operations.

Business-to-Consumer (B2C): Projected to grow at the fastest rate, driven by the surge in online shopping and consumer demand for home deliveries.​

Consumer-to-Consumer (C2C): Facilitated by online marketplaces enabling individuals to trade goods, contributing to parcel volume growth.​

By Mode of Transport

Road: Holds the largest express and small parcel market share, offering flexibility and extensive reach for both urban and rural deliveries.​

Air: Utilized for high-priority international shipments requiring swift transit times.​

Rail and Sea: Employed for bulk shipments where cost efficiency outweighs speed considerations.​

By End-Use Industry

E-commerce: A significant driver, with the sector accounting for a substantial portion of parcel volumes due to the proliferation of online retail.​

Manufacturing, Healthcare, Retail, Financial Services: Each sector contributes to the demand for specialized delivery solutions tailored to their unique logistical requirements.​

Express and Small Parcel Market Regional Insights:

Asia-Pacific: The Epicenter of Market Growth

Asia-Pacific leads the global express and small parcel market, accounting for a 40.3% share in 2023. This dominance is attributed to the region's burgeoning e-commerce sector, particularly in China and India, where digital adoption and online shopping are surging. Investments in logistics infrastructure and technological innovations further bolster market expansion.

North America: Mature Market with Steady Growth

North America maintains a significant market presence, with a 19.85% share in 2023. The region's advanced logistics networks and high consumer expectations for rapid deliveries drive continuous investments in technology and infrastructure to enhance service offerings.​

Europe: Emphasis on Sustainability and Innovation

Europe's market is characterized by a strong focus on green logistics and the integration of sustainable practices. Companies are adopting electric vehicles and optimizing delivery routes to reduce carbon emissions, aligning with stringent environmental regulations and consumer preferences.​

Competitive Landscape

The global express and small parcel market is moderately consolidated, with key players such as DHL Express, FedEx Express, UPS, and DPDgroup commanding significant market shares. These companies are actively pursuing strategic initiatives, including mergers, acquisitions, and investments in technology, to strengthen their market positions.​

Notable Developments

DHL Express: Invested $32 million in November 2024 to establish a new sorting and handling facility at Adelaide Airport, enhancing processing capacity and reducing transit times between Australia and Asia.​

FedEx: Announced a $1.5 billion restructuring initiative in August 2024 to integrate its Ground and Express networks, aiming to reduce redundancy, lower costs, and improve operational efficiency. This strategic overhaul aligns with evolving e-commerce demands, enhancing last-mile logistics capabilities.

UPS: Expanded its international express shipping capabilities in 2024 through infrastructure investments and partnerships, focusing on cross-border e-commerce shipments.

SF Express: Strengthened its presence in Southeast Asia by acquiring regional logistics firms to support growing demand in the Chinese and ASEAN markets.

These competitive moves underscore the industry's shift towards automation, infrastructure expansion, and sustainability-driven growth strategies.

Key Challenges and Opportunities:

Challenges Hindering Express and Small Parcel Market Growth

Infrastructure Gaps in Developing Regions

While demand for express and small parcel deliveries is surging in emerging markets, inadequate logistics networks, poor road conditions, and inefficient supply chain infrastructure hinder seamless operations. Investment in logistics hubs, smart warehouses, and multimodal transportation systems is crucial to overcoming these barriers.

High Costs of Last-Mile Delivery

Last-mile logistics accounts for over 50% of total delivery expenses, driven by urban congestion, labor costs, and inefficient routing. Companies are addressing this challenge by adopting autonomous delivery vehicles, drone deliveries, and crowd-sourced delivery networks to minimize costs.

Stringent Environmental Regulations

Governments worldwide are implementing stricter sustainability policies, mandating logistics providers to reduce emissions and adopt eco-friendly practices. While these regulations foster long-term sustainability, they impose short-term financial and operational constraints on businesses.

Opportunities for Express and Small Parcel Market Expansion

Technological Disruptions Driving Efficiency

The rise of AI, blockchain, and data-driven logistics platforms is enhancing route optimization, inventory management, and predictive analytics. Smart logistics solutions improve delivery accuracy, reduce costs, and enhance customer satisfaction.

Expansion into Emerging Markets

Regions such as Africa, Latin America, and Southeast Asia present immense growth opportunities, with rising internet penetration and increasing disposable incomes fueling e-commerce adoption. Logistics providers are expanding networks to capitalize on these high-growth regions.

Sustainable Logistics and Green Delivery Solutions

The adoption of electric vehicles, carbon-neutral warehouses, and recyclable packaging is reshaping the industry. Companies investing in sustainability initiatives gain a competitive edge by aligning with consumer preferences for environmentally responsible delivery options.

Future Outlook

The express and small parcel market is poised for continued expansion, driven by technological advancements, cross-border e-commerce, and sustainability initiatives. By 2031, the market is expected to surpass USD 830 billion, with key players leveraging AI, automation, and green logistics to enhance efficiency and maintain competitive advantage.

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Conclusion

The global express and small parcel market is undergoing rapid transformation, shaped by evolving consumer expectations, technological innovations, and sustainability imperatives. While challenges such as high last-mile costs and regulatory constraints persist, strategic investments in automation, green logistics, and emerging market expansion will drive sustained growth. Businesses that adapt to these trends and leverage data-driven logistics strategies will secure a competitive advantage in this dynamic market landscape.

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[l5mailingsolutions]

Why Should Small Businesses Invest in Multi-Carrier Shipping Solutions?

Running a small business is exciting, but it also comes with a lot of challenges—especially when it comes to shipping. Customers today expect fast, affordable, and reliable delivery. If a package arrives late or gets lost, it can hurt your brand’s reputation. That’s where multi-carrier shipping solutions can make a real difference.

More Choices, Less Stress

Small businesses often rely on just one carrier, thinking it's easier. However, depending on only one option can lead to delays, high costs, or service issues. Multi-carrier shipping gives you access to several delivery partners, letting you compare rates and services. You can choose the best one for each order based on location, speed, or price. This way, you’re always in control and your customers are happier.

Easy Mail Management

For many small shops, handling daily orders and mail can be time-consuming. Having mail solutions for small businesses helps you organize everything in one place. You don’t need to jump from one platform to another to print labels or track shipments. With a smart system, your team spends less time on shipping and more time growing the business.

Save Money on Every Shipment

Shipping costs can quickly eat into profits, especially when sending products across the country. That’s where multi-carrier tools help the most. You can find the cheapest rates for each package and avoid overpaying. These tools also help reduce extra fees and make sure you’re not missing out on better deals offered by other carriers. Using parcel shipping services this way helps small businesses cut costs without cutting corners.

Ship Across Borders Without Worry

Selling to customers outside your country is a great way to grow your business. However international shipping can be confusing and expensive. Different countries have different rules, forms, and fees. A good shipping system helps you manage international parcel delivery with ease. It can automatically fill out customs forms, show delivery times, and offer clear pricing—making global sales much smoother.

Scale as You Grow

As your orders grow, your shipping process needs to keep up. Multi-carrier shipping platforms are built to scale. Whether you’re sending five or five hundred packages a day, the system adjusts to meet your needs. You don’t have to hire extra help just to manage shipping. Instead, the software does the hard work, keeping things simple and running smoothly.

Final Thoughts

Small businesses work hard to build strong relationships with their customers. Fast and reliable shipping is a big part of that. By using multi-carrier shipping solutions, you save time, cut costs, and offer better service to your buyers.

L5 makes it easy for small businesses to take control of their shipping with smart, flexible tools. Try L5 today and see how simple and powerful shipping can be.

[gdsfreight25]

Streamlining Global Logistics with GDS Freight: International Small Parcel Shipping and DHL International Air Freight

In today’s fast-paced global market, businesses need reliable and efficient logistics partners to ensure their products reach customers in a timely manner. GDS Freight stands out as a trusted provider, offering specialized services in international small parcel shipping and DHL international air freight. These services are designed to streamline the shipping process, reduce costs, and improve overall delivery times for businesses.

International Small Parcel Shipping is a crucial service for businesses that need to send small packages across borders. Whether it’s a handful of products or a single package, GDS Freight’s international small parcel shipping service ensures that shipments are handled with care and delivered on time. Their experienced team understands the complexities of global shipping, including customs regulations, tariffs, and varying international delivery times. GDS Freight partners with leading carriers to offer the most efficient and cost-effective shipping options, ensuring that businesses can focus on their core operations while their parcels reach international destinations without delays.

Another essential service offered by GDS Freight is DHL International Air Freight, which provides businesses with a premium solution for time-sensitive shipments. DHL is renowned for its global reach and reliability, and when partnered with GDS Freight, this service ensures fast, secure, and efficient air freight solutions. Whether it’s a high-value product or an urgent delivery, DHL’s international air freight service allows businesses to meet tight deadlines and maintain high customer satisfaction levels. With GDS Freight’s expertise in handling air shipments, customers can rest assured that their goods will be shipped efficiently and arrive in excellent condition.

GDS Freight’s approach to international shipping is centered on customer satisfaction, offering tailored solutions that meet specific business needs. By leveraging advanced technology and working closely with trusted shipping partners like DHL, GDS Freight helps businesses navigate the complexities of international logistics with ease.

[eatliveescape]

Best Practices for Enhancing Your Shipping and Fulfillment Operations

Shipping and fulfillment are crucial elements of any business, directly impacting customer satisfaction and overall profitability. Ensuring these operations run smoothly requires a strategic approach, effective management, and the right partnerships. With customer expectations for faster shipping times and real-time tracking increasing, businesses need to optimize their processes continuously.…

[flappyhappystim]

Flappy Happy is a small Canadian business run by two autistic women. We ship all of our products from Vancouver Island, BC!

When it comes to getting fidgets in Canada, we've often noticed how difficult it is to get fidgets at reasonable prices. We aim to run our business while having the lowest profit margins we can to stay afloat.

We offer free shipping on Canadian shipments of orders of $70 CAD or more (and we have a lot of products, so it's not too hard to hit this amount! Especially if you combine orders with a friend). We also offer lettermail rates for applicable products (like our spinner rings). Our highest shipping charge is $15 CAD when shipping parcel, so know that once you hit that point, it won't go any higher.

When searching for fidget items, the vast majority are marketed towards children or the parents of children. We wanted to focus on adults that need fidgets. This partially comes from us wanting to say it’s okay to use fidgets (more than okay!), but also us wanting to include more discreet fidget items for those that may need or want them.

Some of our more discreet items include: fidget earrings, spinner rings, fidget necklaces and calm strips. A couple of our quiet items are marble mazes, and infinity yarn. We also aim to offer silicone chew necklaces in styles that are more discreet and stylish looking for adults who like to stim by chewing.

Our website is here!

We appreciate any help spreading the word!

[quarterlifekitty]

Can we pretty please have König with the secret baby trope?

/)/)

( . .)

( づ♡

I offer a little bunny as a bribe [I really hope it works and doesn’t end up misshapen lol]

Bunny looks good to me…. I accept

So in this, I imagine that you were something of a friends with benefits to him. While it wasn’t a sugaring situation, he did insist upon treating you to a nice dinner whenever you met up. When he’d come home on leave, he’d reach out, you’d meet up and fuck, and eventually he’d ship back out and the cycle repeated.

Truthfully, he’d been planning on trying to make things less casual for a long time. He’s not the kind of person who can fuck someone repeatedly and not fall in love, as much as he tried to be when this began. He decided that on his next leave, he would tell you.

He didn’t expect his next leave to be as far away as it turned out to be. While he is within his rights as a mercenary to decline extending his time on the job, he often doesn’t. He’s a workaholic and one of the small number of people at KorTac with no family to speak of, so he often takes on the burden staying on longer when needed. The time gets away from him. He’s gone longer than a year.

He comes back, anxious about where he stands with you. What you had hadn’t exactly been exclusive, and it’s hard to believe that you wouldn’t have been snapped up in that time away. To him, there can be no shortage of other men in your life that are crazy about you.

He contacts you. You tell him that you’re not really in a position to meet up with him, and you don’t really know if you ever will be again, honestly. His hands are sweating and his fingers fuck up on the keyboard all the time, so he just decides to call. Ask you what he’s done, if there’s someone else, if you know that he’s madly in love—

Not thirty seconds into the phone call, just barely past the niceties and pleasant greetings, when all of those questions are on the tip of his tongue— he hears crying. A baby crying. You tell him hurriedly that you’ll have to call him back. He decides he just can’t wait that long. He goes to your place.

You answer the door with a baby in a sling around you, tucked up to your chest, markedly more calm than it had been over the phone. Red hair. Your expression is a little tightened, like you hadn’t really wanted to see him at the door.

“As you can see, I’m not really able to attend a dick appointment right now.”

Fuck, is that what it was? You thought he just wanted sex?

A Quick look at your apartment tells him there isn’t anyone else. No men’s shoes by the door. Photos on the wall are just you and your friends— no partner in sight. It’s also kind of a mess. If there was a man in your life, he deserved to have his head beat in for leaving you to deal with all of this alone all day.

Then comes the quick mental math.

“That’s not what I want. Let me come in, schatz. Let me talk to you.”

It breaks his heart to see how reticent you are to let him in. It’s part and parcel with how tired you look.

“Look, if you’re wondering— yes, he’s yours, biologically.” Well, that clarification at the end stings a little. “But it was my choice to keep him, so I don’t expect anything from you. If this feels like an obligation to you, I’d prefer if we just cut things off here.”

The words that follow spill from his mouth uncontrollably.

“I don’t just want him— I want you. I want the both of you. I want it to be us,” he nearly babbles, hoping what he says is even halfway coherent.

“You’re all I think of when I’m away. I cannot lie and say I’d imagined the… the order of events would be this way. But I’d thought of it— with you. Please let me in, and… and let me meet him properly, ja?”

There are tears in his eyes when his son holding his finger for the first time, not ten minutes later.

[kireilien]

🀦 shipments of domestic parcels ⊹ ࣪ ˖

welcome to the domestic parcels in the kireilien postal office! here is where you will find parcels stamped under hirota riki maus— alternatively andteam’s maki. for parcels stamped under other names, please view international parcels.

please view the postal office rules & regulations before requesting a parcel. the postal office will not be shipping any parcels if they do not comply.

warning: although the postal office does not ship insensitive parcels, the office does ship off dark, occasionally dd:dde parcels. this can include non intense “violence,” blood, drugs, weapon play, cheating (some aspects), stepcest, and more. please read through all waybills carefully, the office meticulously tags them for this reason.

notice: please do not plagiarize or translate any parcels that are under the kireilien postal office! please give credit where it’s due! if i inspired you please tag me instead. i’d love to see it than seeing an alternate version of my work.

request of all parcel delivery are currently closed!

love packages: love packages are the largest parcel to find here at the postal office. expect heavy dosed content, even if they are rare, they’ll start to be more frequent.

love letters: love letters are thoughtfully written out (sometimes...) and has all sorts of contents within them. expect multiple paragraphs in each.

love mailers: love mailers are a bit of a surprise when you open them. categorized as either large or small, expect sporadic and messy writing.

love postcards: love postcards are quickly written and sent out. expect only a single paragraph work, very vague/brief descriptions, or word vomit.

© KIREILIEN 2025

[werezmastarbucks]

snowball pt1

incarnations masterlist

part two

obsessive, deranged, stalker!yoongi x f!complicit!reader

in which, no matter what you do, you can't seem to escape him

word count: 9831

music: can't get over you by joji, haunting by halsey

warnings: violence, casual threats of violence towards the reader (although it never gets to it), toxic relationship, obsessive behaviour, yoongi has rage episodes; texting and driving - that is so dangerous, my bff literally got into a car accident like that, smut, voyeurism, intense jealousy, hardcore stalking, codependent, dysfunctional relationship, gaslighting, manipulation

You open the door and see a mid-sized box sitting there, waiting for you. You kneel to pick it up - rather heavy - then gasp with indignation.

It's your address but not your name. Cause last time you checked, Min Yoongi was a boy and lived in a different place, but that's beyond words. You tiptoe back into the apartment, pulling the door closed after yourself with the hook of your finger, then put the box down a little heavier than normal, and bow to read the information again, just to be sure.

Yoongi has been doing this very funny thing when he puts in your address when ordering something online. He types in the right name and even the phone number, so the delivery people call him to specify the time of dropping the parcels by at your place. At first, you thought it was funny, just about one single time. But the joke got old very quickly; next, it became irritating when he would barge in questioning why you weren't at home on this day and on that time, when the delivery people wanted to grace you with their presence.

Absurd? Sure.

Then you started suspecting he does it on purpose. Like, on the fourth time.

Then finally he confessed: he is kind of paranoid about the secret services learning his address. Why would secret services want you, Yoongi? you asked him, baring you teeth in bitter irony. Of course, of course. The secret services just sleep and dream about catching and seizing an architecture student with bad blonde dye. Sure. He said, accept my quirks, or we're not friends anymore.

You never had a choice anyway. Surprisingly, all his parcels arriving to your house is a minute problem compared to Yoongi's whole presence in your life. Because not being friends is completely out of the question, and it's empty threats. Just like his threats to smack you, kick you or break both your arms. It's just his mouth talking, talking. In reality, even if Yoongi has a violent bone in him, he applies it on others, and not you.

You finally start piecing things together when the sixth parcel in a row is delivered to you, and he calls the same day demanding to know if you accepted it. Eventually he has even adjusted the deliveries to your schedule so that his shit doesn't get shipped back anymore.

You push the box to the wall with your foot carefully and go back into the room to continue what you were doing.

It takes the whole evening and a portion of the night for you to finally message Yoongi about the thing. Weird that he hasn't reached out himself yet; usually he watches over his parcels like a hawk, but maybe he is really busy. His studies are hard, and the spring time is coming with exams, so he is normally buried under the piles of digital books, hunched in his small bed, slouched, busy.

At one in the morning, you finally drop him a word, thinking about why you've been stalling. You know why. You just don't want to even let it into your mind.

If Yoongi comes round, he will stay. There's a lesser chance he will stay in the middle of the night, or that he will even drag himself out of the house. It's not that you don't want to see him; Yoongi is your best friend.

It's the reason why you don't want him to linger around.

The fluffy-headed short guy with white hair covering his eyes was the only one who heard you when you said something smells like smoke.

He walked across the room full of colourless, deaf, disinterested people, and nodded at you, signalling to show him the way. You weren't that alarmed - just thought the owner of the apartment (Namjoon) would be interested to know something is burning in his kitchen.

"I don't drink much", was all Yoongi said with a curvy smile that made his chin dimple, when you complained about people not paying attention. You walked into the small, round kitchen together, and he crooked his neck to see the empty pan heating up on the stove. You watched his calm, unhurried movements as he pulled a towel off the cupboard and wrapped his hand in it; then pushed the pan away and turned off the stove.

He then turned and dug his gaze into you, slightly tilting his head back, because the hair was an obstacle to see.

He looked at you like he recognized you.

Like you said something funny: his eyes got warmer.

Student parties must have collided people together; as a concept, it was invented to hook people up. However you didn't hook up; Yoongi said 'bim bam boom', and you bent in half with laughter. You drunk a lot that night, and everything he did seemed funny. This chemically blonde guy, throwing his head back instead of moving the hair away, dry with his words, sarcastic, kind of looked around like he disapproved of everything at the party. Except for you. You were at the same campus, different courses. You had seen him before: a snow-white head floating around the university, hard to miss in the sea of black. He had seen you longer.

You have an idea that Yoongi... likes you? Craves you? Watches you? He's the type of friend that feels like you've known him for years when in reality even 450 days ago you hadn't known his name. Everything just clicks. The music taste. The outlook on the world. The judgment. The favourite type of coffee. The only thing that's different is the ambition. He knows he will be an architect. He knows he will earn a lot of money. He sees the path and he wants it. He plans to some day build a luxury spa center in the shape of a huge lotus flower.

You? You survive on coffee he brings over in the morning, often on the run, the takes off to the other side of the campus. And just row. Go outside. Read books. You are interested in other things. You watch him, thinking, wow. This is a monster.

Then Yoongi watches you back and you realize he doesn't look this way at anybody else.

Yoongi is the best companion you've had in all your life. It's inexplicable. He's idiotically funny and rude, dry, trustworthy, serious when it's needed, and so, so blonde. When in crowd, his head shines, beams at you kilometers away, you can't lose him.

You can't lose him.

But you still doubt when sending him a message.

"your parcel has arrived" "what parcel?"

You snort into your pillow, look at the time. No way he will travel from another district now, should be safe.

"the parcel you have ordered at my address, again" "oh that parcel."

then, a minute later, he texts:

"it arrived at one in the morning?"

You sigh and shake your head no although he can't see you. You can feel the indignation through the message. One text is usually enough to tell Yoongi's mood. You don't know how either of you does it - you feel him. He is pissed about something and will take it out on you now. You refuse to reply, instead plunging deeper into your bed, curling comfortably under the blanket, toes slightly cold, pressing against each other.

"was the delivery guy a vampire or sum" "ffs"

You brush him off and switch your apps to pacify yourself before sleep by staring at funny videos. But Yoongi becomes active in the night time, just like his theoretical vampire delivery guy who brings parcels at night.

"why you waited all day to text me?"

The ringing demand in it glares at you; Yoongi doesn't let go. You start suspecting he is lamenting the fact that he won't come over tonight. Just when you reinforce your comforting thought, he drops another-

"i'll be in fifteen" "no"

You jump out of bed. Your feet kick, the blanket flies up like it's a bat's wing.

You don't know where the determination came from, but you want to punish him for always misguiding his feelings onto you in the form of scold.

Yoongi likes spending time with you. And can't get enough of it. And blames you for it, sometimes even trying to gaslight you into thinking you're the needy one.

It's a bit clinical.

He is lucky he is so eye-cuttingly cute and so, so captivating with that feral aggressive charisma that you can't stop keeping him around.

You walk barefooted into the corridor where the massive parcel is still patiently waiting by the wall, abandoned and shy. You put your feet into the funny monkey-shaped rubber slippers Yoongi gave you because 'they reminded him of you', and then stall for just a second, thinking what kind of wrath you will be calling upon yourself. Doesn't matter. If it means you get to go to sleep soon, it will be worth it.

You sneak into the street and place the fucking parcel next to the neatly tucked dumpsters. The weather is dry, street is clean. The parcel almost looks like a pet you're kicking out. The phone in your hand, edge of it painfully poking you into the palm, vibrates again.

"no, twenty, the lock is jammed" "pick it up by the dumpsters"

A pause.

"you didn't" "i need to go to sleep"

You curse yourself for even texting him in the first place. It's almost like you knew what he'd do, and wanted to take your chances.

Seriously, risking that grumpy, displeased, ruffled, snow-head Yoongi will show up at your doorstep in the dead of night, has the truly Gemini edge to it. You want it. But you don't though. You love his energy. You know it will disrupt your whole night and make you oversleep in the morning.

Yoongi's insults and complaints trickle into your phone in the form of notifications peeping in your hand as you walk back to the building. The night spring air, still cold for promenades, not flowery-scented yet, is threatening to kill your desire to sleep with the freshness, so you hurry.

You beg the universe to make Yoongi tired enough tonight so that he gives up, but you know these prayers are futile. Not even God will want to deal with that angry, obsessive raccoon.

Twenty minutes later, a notification of yet another text echoes the ring of the doorbell:

"you really threw my fucking keyboard to the dumpsters"

You turn off the light pretending it will exorcise him from behind the door like a demon. It doesn't work.

"open the door"

The phone is too big for your hands; you squint at its light.

"you got it? go home" "didn't freeze my ears off for half an hour to not beat you up now" "go home" "open ze door"

You hate how his dumbness puts a smile to your face. He bangs on the door outside. Two minutes before a neighbour peeks out and starts cursing him, and then Yoongi will unleash all he has, and you will be the butt of the joke.

"home"

You try for the last time.

"open. door."

He suddenly bangs so hard it reminds you of that scary-ish night when it dawned on you Yoongi might be crazy. These short, unexpected flashes of rage would have been completely off-putting if not for his unwavering devotion to your... friendship?

It was a short, eye-opening moment, really. You noted how Namjoon wasn't surprised at all, only, slightly upset. He looked guilty. Knew Yoongi way longer than you did.

When your elbow slipped off the window sill (tipsy) and you ouched audibly, rubbing it, it attracted attention of Joonho (drunk) who stumbled towards you, confusing you with someone else. You made sure he did, because he kept calling you Hani. You even tried to specify if he means the actress? but the guy was so wasted it was embarrassing. His whiskey breath engulfing your head like a helmet; you slouched trying to get away from him, from under the arm he pressed against the window. It was on the first and only storey of Namjoon's mother's modest but beautiful home. Nobody deserved what transpired. As you bent your shoulders and knees to get away, Joonho grabbed you by the arm in a more of a reckless, mindless drunk gesture, as in 'no wait', not even the 'you're not going anywhere' way. But Yoongi was there, ten steps away, elbowing his way to you. You came to the party together, a couple of besties, and left it together also, but in a very changed state of mind.

The whole scene didn't even last a minute - that's how quickly snowball head Yoongi made that decision; he noticed his hand on you, and something primal in him took the wheel. The time it took him to walk across the room couldn't be more than three seconds. He is a small, delicate boy: just about a head taller than you, thin wrists, more of a twink, actually. But the force with which he grabbed the poor drunk idiot belonged to someone you didn't know. With the whole body, Yoongi shoved him - only, there was a window in the way, and so Joonho got crashed into it, and then through it, and fell out on the grass in the yard.

The party went quiet. The shatter of glass, sharp, melodic like techno, contrasted with Yoongi's deadly pale face in that moment. You managed to catch the moment when the animal unclutched his brain, and the light returned to his eyes, rebooting his system.

But it was too late. Yoongi shoved a guy through the window for grabbing you without consent - and that was the thing you could never forget. That's that.

You have had several healthy conversations with yourself about that and so far still weren't completely sure this part of him isn't dangerous. Let's reframe it: not dangerous to you. The way he bangs on the door right now, booming through the quiet stairwell, can be anything. It can be your last night on this earth: it might be the animal and not Yoongi the friend behind the door.

You still get up from the bed, striding slowly through the sleepy darkness of your small rented apartment; he is luring you like a bog light. It's almost useless lying to yourself; you might not be in love with him. You definitely do not suffer from the smoky, bizarre obsession Yoongi seems to have about you. But you aren't ready to block his number either. Not out of fear. No. It's the... his eyes when the animal retreats.

You unlock the door and see him in the spring jacket that's too light for the nighttime. Nose still red from the cold, he is jumping lightly like he is either freezing or his bladder is full.

"This wasn't an invitation, you know", you grumble, standing your ground. Yoongi is about to take the step forward but stops himself, seeing that you're blocking the way to the corridor.

"I need to pee".

You roll your eyes. It's pleasant, almost delirious to pretend he annoys you. He does the same all the time; calls you immature to rile you up; forgetful to anger you; insists on following you, in order to see the whites of your eyes. It's youth and all its sweet, cringe-free pretence. You step aside with a sigh and mumble immediately:

"You leave after. I need to go to sleep like an hour ago. I need to get up early".

He sniffs shortly, the parcel he'd picked up by the dumpsters again inside your apartment. It drops from under his arm as he walks in and quickly kicks off his shoes and, without looking at you, walks straight to the bathroom.

He always does something there. Every time he's in there, you hear him open the mirror cupboard doors (he doesn't need to; there's nothing of his concern inside), shuffle around the products, the toothpaste and the brush on the sink, and moving the little sliding shelf next to the shower cabin.

When you ask him what he is doing, Yoongi usually replies that he "assesses". Sometimes it's easier not to inquire.

You look at the parcel resting at exactly the same spot next to the wall again. And simply walk into the bedroom. You hear him pee in the dead quiet of the apartment; then turn on the water. Your feet against the floor, still cold after the winter, and not a single alarm going off in your brain.

Maybe the animal is never out to get you.

You snuggle back into the bed still convincing yourself you will be able to command him away from under the blanket, from the shrimp position you've assumed. Once Yoongi noticed how you sleep, he wouldn't stop teasing you about being neurodivergent, the T-Rex hands making him snap with laughter. You've always thought it's the loneliness pose. The trying to curl into yourself for comfort.

The bathroom door opens, and he proceeds with silent, cat steps, and you only hear him when his jacket shuffles inside the bedroom.

"No street cl-"

"I remember", he mutters and takes it off. Losing him in the darkness is as impossible as in the crowd. He is all sugary-white like a ghost. You see his pale wrists grab the hems of the jacket and pull it off, then throw it back into the corridor, right on the floor. You close your eyes for a second.

Wouldn't be the first time.

"Why did you have to take it outside? What if someone had stolen my keyboard?" he whines, unmoving, in front of bed, like an alien visiting you with the intention to abduct.

You scoff into the pillow.

"The street is empty".

You think about how late it is, and it makes you moan. Only about five hours left of sleep.

"Maybe you should stop ordering your shit and putting in my address".

He hums indifferently. You can hear him doing something. The clothes rustle very softly, on the edge of audibility. You open your eyes to see what the fuck the guy is doing - he is sitting on the edge of bed, taking off socks. His house sweatpants he put on when leaving the house are also shining grey in the indigo dark of the room.

You never even thought of asking yourself what you two are. Have a feeling this dynamic is pretty rare. You missed the moment when Yoongi became a weird ghost present in your every day and not just a best friend.

He slowly walks around the bed crawling towards the other side, and gently lifts the edge of the blanket, like you're a forest deer that may dart if he produces a sharp movement.

"I need sleep", you warn him, muffled, against the pillow, and he sighs like he is at least sixty-eight,

"Yes? You only mentioned it forty times in the span of a minute. Go to sleep then".

Lying on your side with your head slightly turned, you see his rogue leg kicking his portion of the blanket down and lie on top of it as he stretches next to you.

Truth is, even his scent is so soothing that it immediately makes you sleepy. You get sleepy around him often. Psychologists say it's a sign of compatibility and peace? Yoongi doesn't touch you, not even by accident; he produces a single deep purr when his phone beeps from the corridor, in the pocket of his jacket. When it beeps again, you groan, irritation growing in you, and he groans in reponse, jumping off heavily, like it's your fault.

When he returns, you feel the bed cave in again, and close your eyes.

"We should do it more often", he says, and finally awkwardness dawns on you. You tense a little.

"Sleepovers", he clarifies and turns to his side. You can feel his eyes peering into the back of your neck.

You can't hear him breathe. You can't hear him walk. In the morning you wake up, shaking a nasty dream off yourself: you were walking in the forest, and a bird flew off the tree, tipping it, and the trunk fell on you, burying you on the ground. The weight is Yoongi's arm around your waste, pale fist relaxed next to your stomach, knuckles pointing to your solar plexus. His nails are always neatly cut, very short, clean, because he would nibble on them if he didn't get rid of them. Even his hand is screaming unrest. And yet, when he stays over, silently crawling into your warmth, pretending it's nothing, you sleep very well. The animal guards you.

He leaves before the classes start, forgetting the damn parcel near the wall in your corridor. Forgetting, right. Forgetting he put it there. The keyboard is so important that he forgets to take it with him. He forgets.

─────────────── ✧

Yoongi is surprisingly forgetful, although you find it a relief sometimes. Every fifth time it skips his mind that you had plans for an evening or he was supposed to pick you up from somewhere. You linger on those occasions demonstrating his absent-mindedness, hoping they are proof that he isn't completely consumed by you.

Ever since he bought an old used car, he's been your designated driver; the concept of him succeeding in his little ambitious projects (find an evening job, stay an A-student meanwhile, get a car) makes you feel more respect to him, gradually pushing the image of an irrational, chaotic, capricious snowball head from your mind.

Now you wish Yoongi thought a little more about you tonight specifically as you leave the gym. The empty dark street has become chilly about four hours ago; you take out your phone scanning the road with your eyes, searching for his little white Hyundai parked nearby. The only person who had shared the workout with you at such a late hour is leaving behind your back: it's a gym worker. A buff tall guy in a cap, also dressed too light for this early spring weather; he throws you one expressionless look, and you don't linger on his broad back. The phone in your hand lights up as you type a message to the only person you trust fully. Perhaps you shouldn't. But you do. You are in too deep.

"where are you?" "homy"

Of course. You walk slowly towards the empty bus stop, lit up softly with pinkish-lilac neon signs. Your butt feels fragile against the cold iron bench, and you wiggle.

"why???"

Yoongi replies with an annoyed emoji.

In a minute, he remembers.

"oh shit"

He probably is completely lost under his papers; exams are coming, and Yoongi is about the only person you know who sincerely enjoys studying. You don't really blame him; he will do it well himself. You simply chuckle, reading his swift chain of apologies, and put your workout bag under yourself to sit on something warmer.

"hang on, i will be there in 15"

The city is almost empty at midnight; through the glass wall, you watch the street with feeble plum trees recuperating slowly after another winter. Soon, this district will bloom pink and yellow, white and purple, and be very beautiful. You might even make Yoongi walk here with you, under the guise of simply spending time together, as opposed to sharing this beauty with him. Because he is kinda similar to all that bloom: fluffy and in light colours, and vulnerable. No, not that way. Yoongi is vulnerable like a bare wire.

You look at the time on your wristwatch and shiver slightly, not properly cold yet. One lonely person passes by on the other side of the road without looking at you. It's boring; time drags out so slowly, the hand of the watch seemingly unwilling to move. Your earphones are dead, so your brain gulps, squirms for immediate entertainment. You take the phone again, a part of you capricious like a little kid who is reaching out for cake right now.

"a creepy guy just sat next to me lol"

The reply comes almost immediately. You can clearly imagine Yoongi driving and typing; he does it all the time. One hand on the wheel, long fingers guiding the vehicle without any tension at all. And the eyes on the screen, looking from under his thick white hair.

"where ?" "i'm on the bus stop" "walk away but not far don't run"

You sigh and lean against the glass, smirking. No idea why. Simply bored. Maybe it will make him drive faster. The muscles in your legs hurt so much you dream about a hot shower and the crisp of your bed. It can't happen soon enough.

"???" "i crossed the street"

You pause for a little to make it seem more realistic. The street is still hollow, almost all buildings dark just like the closed gym behind your back.

"he's following me loool"

The silence that comes after makes you feel a little uncomfortable. You rub your eyes with your hand, then yawn. These bus stops are becoming more and more dreamy each year. Holographic ad spread out softly inside the glass with that pleasant greenish tint. The only bad thing about them are these ice-cold iron benches that always evoke the female childhood trauma of "do not sit on the cold surfaces!!!"

"where is he? keep walking" "i'm almost there"

You read the messages and feel your ears tune in with the quiet of the street. The big avenue several blocks away hisses and blares with the commotion, and his white shambly Hyundai, a personification of him, is supposed to divert from there any second now. You stand up, pulling the bag onto your shoulder, and manage to make several steps forward, when you hear Yoongi before you see him.

His little car, an old, hardworking baby he clawed out for five million won, is sliding across the clean, still chilly asphalt, and Yoongi brakes sharply next to the bus stop. The driver door kicks open, and you realize he will never not be attractive to you. From the moment he crossed that dense, smoke-filled living room in Namjoon's house, he stood out to you in the ways that are subtly beyond simple explanation. There's a certain flexibility in the way he exits the car, with shoulders already raised, a little cat ready to fight a rottweiler; hair shining against the unevenly lit dark midnight street. The white hair that takes in the chewy neon lights of the bus stop like a sponge.

His eyes scan the space behind you as you walk towards the car unhurriedly. Yoongi cuts the distance between you in two strides, his jaw slightly unhinged: his brain is either focused on keeping his mouth closed, or it isn't.

"Huh? Where..." he turns his head to look across the road. You fail to notice the vein on his throat: too dark; and the fists clenched by his sides: focused on his face. You grin apologetically. Yoongi's skin is pinkish as the holografic ad changes on the glass.

"Thought you'd be here sooner if I created a reliable threat for you".

Suddenly his eyes slide back onto you, and grinning dies by itself. His mouth opens again. He is wearing home sweatpants as always: probably dropped the pen and left the house immediately, throwing the jacket on his back, as he realized he'd forgotten about the gym night. The beatle-black eyes from under the hair drill into you for a second, and then Yoongi steps up. You're half-way to his car, the bag in your hand, something in your brain itching you to get inside sooner rather than later; you turn to look at him; Yoongi's shoulders raise back again, and in the next second, he crashes his fist into the glass wall of the bus stop.

An almost nauseating flashback into the party. Only, the sound of glass is different. Your foot freezes in front of you, neck almost cramping with tension as your whole body asks: fight? flight? stay?

The glass glitches into a grey net of shards; hundres of them fall on the ground in front of him at once, to Yoongi's feet. Your fist clenches the bag in an iron grip as your eyes bulge.

Together with the hissing sound of the glass, you see a short, almost unnoticeable burst of red: the skin on his fist explodes with the force he applied to the blow.

The back of his head drops, shoulders lower, relaxing; then Yoongi turns around, and your gaze slides onto his hand. Blood dripping on the asphalt. He relaxes the palm, straightening fingers, trying to feel how bad it is, probably.

"Good prank", he says softly. Your eyes dart back to his face. It's a little tired, greyish now that he had destroyed the source of the futuristic shine.

"You think you're overreacting a bit?" you ask. Throat dry. Yoongi shakes his head like he always does; it's not an answer, he ignores the question. He always fixes his hair that way, covering his eyes, like he doesn't want you to see them.

He drives back with one hand, the bloody palm lying on his lap, fingers half-bent, the crevices of the nails filled with red. At home, you tug on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, pulling him into the bathroom, and look at the broken knuckles in the bright light. Tiredness is forgotten; all nerves in your body are concentrated on him. You are in awe the most about how your brain is completely sleeping on the danger of him. Get into his car. Get him into your home. Kicking the long-forgotten and ignored keyboard in the parcel box, still unopened, still unneeded.

Yoongi yanks the hand away from you, refusing to give into the silent moment, and turns on the water. He knows his way around your place: opens the shelf doors and takes out the antiseptic and several cottons swabs. He starts cleaning his cuts by himself, blinking aimlessly, one tip of his mouth sucked in, like he doesn't feel pain at all.

"You wanna tell me something about your violent outbursts?" you ask gently, sitting yourself on the closed lid of the toilet.

Even behind the hair, you can see he is frowning.

"Just reacting to circumstances".

Yoongi is like a shark. He is slow, observant and unstoppable. Knowing him in his everyday life, you'd say he doesn't really react to things. Lets them slide off of him unless they pinch him directly.

"Overreacting".

He curls his mouth, and it might look capricious to some, but puts a smile on your face.

"Don't be toxic".

It's the first time in the whole year and a half you've known him, that he opens up:

"I have big emotions".

"About?"

Yoongi puts out his hand above the sink, dissatisfied with the intricate work the swab does. And pours the antiseptic straight to his knuckles; you can see the separate pieces of skin upturned by the blow, the spots of collision; the abrasion exposing his red flesh. It sizzles and bubbles as the hydrogen peroxide bites into his hand. The natural empathy makes your jaw ache for a moment as your eyes clutch the view. Yoongi doesn't flinch. He makes a fist softly, then opens the cupboard again and searches for a bandaid. You completely forget he avoids the question again; the defined curve of his jaw has an almost glistening clarity to it; you leave the bathroom to get him a band from the kitchen.

Neither of you feels like speaking. You feel a bit shitty for your little stunt, finding it tasteless in any context; however, with Yoongi, the problem of it is pushed to the background.

You turn around on the other side, half-asleep, and bump into him. Had crawled from the edge of the bed, so soundlessly, closer to you, like he is a snake shapeshifter. Sometimes Yoongi makes you think of the sleep paralysis demon standing above you as you sleep. The white of him an unmistakeable beacon in the blackness of your bedroom protected from the outside by thick purple curtains.

The sleepiness only allows about 40% of your brain to function, so, just like when you're a little drunk, the conventional defenses are down. Your hand lifts up from the mattress and gets to his head; curious, you rake the hair off his forehead, and Yoongi opens his eyes, two black slits, cat-like, on the white face. His wounded hand flinches under his chin but rests. You see the top part of his face so rarely, like it's an unexplored, or forbidden, territory. His strong, smooth forehead is alien under your palm. You don't know what you expected - perhaps not two perfectly symmetric, angular eyebrows. His eyes watching you lazily, half-lidded.

He says,

"I won't let anything happen to you".

The sound is blunt against the pillow. And the next second - perhaps you dreamt it? he charges at you, like a spider.

─────────────── ✧

You rarely see your sister. The family - a sore spot in your body - is a distant concept. You've thought of yourself as alone the last five or so years. Relatives staying behind in another city, that naive, tall, young girl with fencing as a hobby being your only thread connecting you to the blood. She is reserved, too. The children in your family... you feel the weird, seismic connection in between how Yoongi hides his eyes from you, and the arm-length distance your own sister is keeping you at. Never talking about feelings. Never sharing the trauma of growing up in a religious fanatics family. But in the short hugs you exchange once every two years, there's still familiar, deeply-hidden flame: i love you. Like it's an embarrassing secret, like it's something dirty.

She meets you at the coffeeshop near the university, and you try to pretend like he is your personal poltergeist pet when he comes round exactly an hour in, having given you two time to reconnect. He said he might. You know his 'might', unlike with other men, is always actually 'definitely'. The smaller the deal he makes about his promises, the more sure they are to become true.

The last time you've seen this girl, she was still in high school. Now, barely out of it, she is growing into a young woman. Five years behind you, the same eyes though. You see them stare at Yoongi curiously when he leans against his chair, his arm spread on the back of yours, fingers tracing symbols on your spine casually. There was no definite let's date between you, of course. This is you, your familial curse, and Yoongi fitting into the shape of it perfectly. All smoke, all implications instead of proclamations.

He is to be stared at, you don't find it criminal. Feral, slender, slightly stooping, he shakes his hair onto his eyes, then, surprisingly, puts his finger into it and moves some away, showing an eyebrow. Stares back at her.

"You look alike", he grins shyly, the corners of his smile forming tiny half-moons on his cheeks. The conversation screeches to a halt when he arrives: not that it was natural before, so his sudden appearance actually made it worse. He is disruptive to any system you build around yourself; barging in, throwing snowy glow, drawing glances. Yoongi doesn't contribute any more to the conversation, just leaning back, relaxed, sipping black coffee, his fingers scratching your back. Sometimes her eyes dart to him, like she is saying things for him to hear and acknowledge. She has always been like that: transparent in her focus. Eyes bigger than yours, she is like a simpler copy of you.

What you fail to notice is how Yoongi keeps meeting her gaze, never refusing her a return look.

"You should see her more often", he suggests when you leave the coffeeshop. Yoongi's hand envelops yours in an insufferably warm gesture. Feels right. That's what doesn't let you rest.

"The girl clearly misses you".

"When I text, she rarely replies", you note, "we both have problems... with communication".

He doesn't press.

You don't see your sister for another four years after that.

─────────────── ✧

Yoongi doesn't kiss; he devours you. He shows with all his body that he wants you. You still don't officially date: rather, you belong to each other. With every touch that your spare each other, attraction grows, like you have been put under the spell. Only, he's been put earlier. Otherwise, it's monotonously sweet, like breathing in the drug.

It's disruptive to studies; you can't leave your rented apartment for days, curled, pressed into the mattress, sometimes without touching, sometimes just talking. Although it would be fair to mention that talking happens less often when his mouth is in your vicinity.

Yoongi's favoutire meal: what's in between your legs. He brings over food for you and starves, waiting until you're finished, to glue himself to your vulva until you visibly thrash around. He doesn't stop when you come; you have to pull his head away with force and in the moments when his eyes flick up on you, you see the animal is at the wheel, trying to cannibalise you. He never hurts you, unless you ask; no, he needs you metacarnally. The first time you have actual sex, it's his head pressed against the inner side of your thigh, tongue licking your residual from his lips, the hand caressing your stomach because you're shaking. And the quiet, thin "I need to fuck you now; please". You think he is being too careful for someone who might call you an idiot 'as a joke' four hundred times in one day, so you just whisper an okay; you are still coming down from an orgasm that makes your legs go numb. Your limbs go numb with pleasure, all senses focusing in the center of your body where Yoongi quickly pulls down his pants and crawls onto you like a shadow parasite. That's how you know the animal is deeply in love with you: it slides his dick inside gently, swiftly, and lets Yoongi moan into your shoulder, which immediately activates your protective instincts. He fucks you long and tender, fast, and slow; he has a habit of clenching his cock at the base so that he doesn't come too early even though you'd prefer him to sometimes.

Yoongi has a habit of pressing his lips together to form a straight line which makes him look like a frog. When he studies, he becomes deaf to the phone calls. He walks, putting his legs too wide, because his balls are too big. He washes twice a day, keeping clean, and never fails to mention how you are just a step away from clinically disgusting because - oh, the horror - you shower only in the evening, before bed.

He loves you; there is not a single doubt in your mind about that; albeit in his own lunatic way. It's the love that smothers you in the morning when he is clingy from sleep and follows you around the apartment like a puppy, his hands roaming from the top of your neck to the undersides of your knees. He doesn't give you any pet names, preferring to repeat your actual name like it's his prayer. You hear the tone that creeps into the normal interactions, even when he just calls you for something.

You get to move his hair away from the eyes, and he gradually gains the habit of brushing the bangs to the sides. His eyes are now open to the world; just about anybody can look into them when you are out in the street. Yoongi doesn't need to order parcels at your address and attract your attention by starting petty fights about nothing, anymore. You are all his. Every time he calls, you struggle to say no, because you drown in him, too. You, you don't have to call at all.

Sometimes he just turns up on the doorstep like a genie, like he feels you need him.

He is - what do they say - simply too good to be true.

─────────────── ✧

In the summer, he has time to work like he always does, and be at your side. Like a guardian. Like a security. When walking along the road, he pushes you to the other side on the pavement, away from the cars. Shielding, hiding you. When you tell Yoongi his care is overbearing, that you don't need him to accompany you everywhere, he gaslights.

Yoongi is lounging on your bed with the polaroid album in his hands. His hair is growing out; you had noticed with a surprise that it has a slight wave. It's incredibly cute. The roots are dark: he has an appointment next week with the hairdresser who is going to turn him back into the immaculate snowball. You call him snowball head, and he rages about it, weirdly, like it's an insult. You break your brain to understand what exactly about it he finds so irritating. So you call him that often.

"Snowball head", you coo from your desk. You look at him. Yoongi has already redirected his gaze from the pictures to you, staring through the opening in the Ikea cubicle shelf. His eyes are dark like when he is about to snap.

"Although the snow is dirty, huh?" you chuckle, "I need to go to the store".

"You're not going anywhere", he taps on the page of the album with his index finger. His nails always clean and short, digging into the skin. Otherwise he'd make a mess.

"Until you tell me about these people".

He wants to know your past relationships and the present. And maybe even the future. You found that indulging his bursts of possessiveness with condescension is easier than arguing. Yoongi is not dumb; he knows he behaves like a maniac sometimes. Grabbing your wrist when you say hi to people. Asking about every single face in the pictures.

You leave the chair and stroll towards the bed, painfully slowly. Every time he is in horizontal, something in the dark, meaty depths of your brain commands you to get excited. No matter what he does; no matter how he acts; the picture of Yoongi's long legs on the blanket and his dishevelled white-grey hair on your pillow is an order. Maybe you are broken, too. By the time you settle yourself next to him, pushing the elbow into the blanket next to his rib, you almost forget what he wanted to ask.

"Who's that?"

"My classmate. We wedded in second grade", you look up at his jaw next to your face. "In the girls' toilet, with pom-pom thread rings".

"Ever got divorced?"

When you clearly try to rile him up, he usually plays along. The slant of his eyes is irresistible: the upper lid ending too low, making him look like a cat, inner corner like an elegant stroke of a brush. And he knows it. Sometimes Yoongi just lets you stare at him and keeps quiet.

"No".

You watch him unravel slowly, under the surface. The submarine made of hell, fire, passion and blood just below the still water. A slow smile creeps onto your face as you drop your head on his shoulder.

"Where is he?" he asks suddenly. Your brows fly up.

"No idea. Haven't seen him since school".

Yoongi blinks once, a little too hard, and flips the page of the photo album. His silence feels like old crusty paint that scrubs against the fingers. He bites his lower lip musingly.

"I need to go to the store", you repeat. Yoongi ignores you. He is looking through the album at the people you used to know: childhood friends; university pals he is also acquianted with; past best buddies. He doesn't ask any more questions, and that is worse than him complaining, or interrogating you. He looks like he is updating a file in his head, marking them. You sniff through your nose, pushing yourself off the bed and try to get up to get dressed. The July sun is low; stores will be closing soon.

His hand grabs your elbow quicker than it takes to notice. Pulls you back. You ask yourself why it arouses you rather than irritates. Yoongi finally lets go of the album, throwing it to the side; it slides off the blanket and falls to the floor with a thump. This is the last time you ever see the thing. After this, the album disappears. You know Yoongi took it, in retrospective. You know he presses you down with anger, shoving his tongue inside your mouth like he is searching for traces of unfaithfulness behind your teeth. You know this is not a red flag but a vast poppy field. But it intoxicates you; the sound of his throat as he draws a breath is a fucking melody; you know, if he keeps you home for too long, in the morning he will bring you the groceries you needed, without even asking for the list.

─────────────── ✧

"I don't actually think you're stupid, you know that? I wouldn't be with a stupid person".

You pout angrily.

"Then maybe change up your nicknames for me".

"It's not nicknames", Yoongi is trying to make peace. His freshly dyed and cut hair is shining in the kitchen; short strands on top stand up, unburshed. The romantic wave is gone. You try to push the stubborn strands down, but this discoloured hair is more like plastic now. Yoongi drags the spoon inside the plate, no doubt to irritate you further, gathering chunks of egg.

"Why do you get to piss me off, but I don't?"

You stare at him in sincere awe.

"I piss you off? When do I ever piss you off?"

He rolls his lazy morning eyes. Lopsided mouth chews, opening and closing. His lips are raw pink.

"You know".

You hold yourself against the table, invested no to end.

"I don't".

"Call me snowball head".

"I never got what's so offensive about it".

"I just don't like it; and when you pull me by the hair; and you keep doing that".

He drops his head, focused on egg again. Your hand can't help itself; it gets into his hair once again to see the reaction. It never occurs to you that maybe you are imperfect, too. Yoongi just sighs, his slender shoulders looking paler now that the hair is white, and the tee he is wearing is also white.

"That is such a strange thing to be pissed about".

"You're a strange thing", he hoots.

"No, you".

"No you".

You look at your phone to check the time, and get distracted. Meant to see how long he has before he needs to leave for work. You, you get free summers. Because Yoongi.

"What is it?" he asks after a while. His eyes now awake. He looks from above the table, across the tiny kitchen, focused like he is about to jump. You huff and throw the phone on the counter.

"28 Years Later dropped, I was reading comments".

"Really?"

"Oh, of course not. I am lying to you, I was texting other guys".

The emotional tone change is exhausting. It happens with him about seven times a day. It's draining. Yoongi tenses his jaw muscles, spoon near his mouth.

"An hour after waking up, already in the mood, huh?"

Your eyes bulge with indignation.

"And who ruined it!!!" you almost yell. Yoongi knows how to push and pull. He has a built-in barometer inside his skin. He gets up from the table and walks over to you, and you deem it your duty to fight him off a little. You can never encourage this. You can never resist him when he puts his hands on both sides of your waist. But not before swiping your phone off the counter and looking through it.

"Honestly this is humiliating", you complain, calmer. Trying to get to him. There's faint stubble on the tip of his chin giving away the fact that he is a full twenty-three year old man.

"I don't distrust you", he booms quietly. One hand grounding you to the place, firmly, but non-aggressively. It's always him acting like he has to help you come to your senses. Like he isn't the one who needs his brains tweaked.

"Just everybody else".

"So that means you distrust my intellect".

"You are naive. People flirt with you and don't even notice".

"I notice, I just don't care".

You lower your face to try and look into his. He is finally satisfied, his finger working the display of your phone. Quickly changing apps, he is checking every single page at the speed of an AI bot.

"I do".

"Why?"

Yoongi's arm tenses a little, blue veins on the forearm shooting through the flesh, as he pulls you closer. It's trusting. The space in between is such a good place; you just wish he saw that, too. The morning bliss is still there, in the tickling kiss he places on your cheek.

"Because you are mine".

The kiss turns into a soft bite. It's not the first time you suspect Yoongi would, in fact, eat you, if only it wouldn't mean your death.

This is the day when his delusion allows him to think that telling you he had installed a camera in your kitchen would be a good idea.

In an ugly twist of irony the empty pan on working stove had brought you together and then separated you.

You forget to turn it off after you drain the water from the pan.

Twenty minutes later, you get a message on your phone:

"pasta's about to burn"

It makes zero sense to you so at first you ignore it. Yoongi texts again:

"y/n, turn off the stove"

Once you are shaken back into reality, you do start smelling the smoke.

It is a double flinch: first, a the closely avoided tragedy.

Second, at the realization.

You walk into the kitchen and push the pan away, turning the handle. Then you freeze, in the empty space that is now filled with the ghost of Yoongi.

Simplistic questions seem dumb to ask, but you cannot override them.

"how did you know?"

This is why he calls you a dummy sometimes. You know. You just stall endlessly, never wanting to believe what your brain is computing. Always hoping Yoongi would have a different explanation.

"that's why i put it in your home" "put what?" "you won't find it 😊"

You retreat from the kitchen, and he texts:

"nooo don't go"

You collapse onto the chair in your bedroom, and your head snaps to the sides.

Yoongi is a spider with eight eyes.

Finally, the wake up call rings in your ears with the sound of an ambulance siren. He. Put. A camera. Into your kitchen.

Is he watching from the phone? His working computer? Is he even at work?

You throw the phone of your desk and jump up, walking around the bedroom. Your eyes scan the space; for some reason you are drawn to the window, so you stand on your tiptoes to feel through the curtains, unsure of what you are doing. The phone keeps buzzing on the desk. You hit your laptop shut, seeing the small black eye of the web camera staring back at you.

"cold" "colder" "there aren't any in your bedroom, only the laptop" "wait you mad?"

Your throat throbs with the emotion you couldn't describe even if you had a thesaurus at your disposal.

"are you insane? yoongi are you insane?" "dont b dramatic" "YOU ARE LITERALLY INSANE"

... "and whose fault is that?"

After you do not reply for a while, he clearly gets nervous. He simply underestimates the implications of what he's done.

"you can't even walk into a room on the first try, always keep bumping into shit you expect me to just leave you for a whole day and hope you don't kill yourself?"

For the first time in the whole while you've known him, dated him, kept him in your apartment, you start sobering up. You can't even find the camera. You walk back into the kitchen with shame, like it's you who has done the crazy thing, and start going centimeter by centimeter while Yoongi is spamming you on the phone. You can't find the fucking camera. It's either very small, or he is, in fact, a demon who penetrates your place in spectral form and watches you, invisibly, sitting on your ceiling.

You raise your face to it and stare into the white, feeling yourself go insane, too.

In thirty minutes, he is at the door. Banging, threatening, yelling. Pleading. Your name comes out of his mouth like a prayer. Like it's something you can almost taste. Something that he can eat forever. For a while, a long while, you do not feel attracted to him at all.

You do not let him inside the apartment, rather, stepping out bare footed, and hit him in the chest with your fists sideways, and he blames you for being literally the most performative bitch in the universe. He doesn't get the concept of personal space. There is no personal space: just you and his unwavering love.

There are no tears. It's not a tragic story. There's terror: you make him tell you where he hid the camera: it's tucked right under the window sill, in between two wires of your UV light lamp for the plants. The plants that you had been forgetting to water and that didn't die. Because Yoongi had been entering your place when you weren't there, and took care of them.

He has been everywhere in the creases of your existence, not only in between your legs; he wanted to fill your universe to the brim, so that you wouldn't see anything else.

"A hundred per cent of my life is you", he hammers, the edge of his jaw burning pink after your nails dragged along it. A failed slap on the face, turned scratching.

"Do you realize that?"

"You need help", you beg, crouching your fingers in horror. Trying to put some distance in between you.

"What I need to do, I think", he muses, "is to get you pregnant".

It's him thinking out loud. His eyes crawl up to the ceiling. Your feet go cold on the bare stone of the staircase cubicle. You step one foot, then the other, and it doesn't escape his attention.

His words make you want to sneak back into the flat and lock the door, but he knows the code. He punches it himself most of the time, when he doesn't feel like waiting for you to get the door. There's nowhere to run from him. The serpent brain peeks through his pale skin. Snowball head wants to tie you to himself with something unbreakeable. You step back.

"No, Yoongi, no-"

"I won't force you, just saying. You won't have to work anyway. I'll get a better job in no time".

And you know he means it. He is the first in his class. He is going for the highest marks. Several architectural companies already want him for apprenticeship after his graduation. He is a machine. He has all ends in his hands. And now you know: he is doing it for you.

"You don't get it, do you?" you whisper, "We're over. I am breaking up with you".

"We weren't dating", he replies, deadpan. You see he doesn't take it seriously. His neck crooks slightly, like he is studying you for the first time.

"You can't break up with me".

"I'll call the police", you utter, and he smiles. His small, square teeth click against each other, showing salmon-pink gums. Yoongi fills the whole space, a sixty-two kilogram guy with the sharp collarbones from forgetting to eat anything except your pussy, for days.

"You'll call the police? What are you, a stalking victim?" he grins wider with sincere disbelief. The raised eyebrows indicate he isn't mocking you.

You cling onto the door, and he steps to you, making you tense your body like a spring. His slow, black eyes look you up and down, then he puts his warm hand on top of your palm.

"We love each other. Or you don't think so?"

"This is not love", you mutter. You see his face like it's the first time: nose too wide. Tired eyes. Chapped lips. You saw it before. But now it's without the bright-pink tint of desire.

"It's mental disorder".

"Really? And what's so bad about this mental disorder? Do you not like it?"

"You really don't understand what's so wrong about watching me when I am alone", you gulp, almost hysterically, "going through my phone and stealing my things?"

"For every thing I steal, I put one extra back", he says quietly. "How are you planning to be without me, if you haven't restocked your own bath products in six months?"

The icicle slides down your spine. Without thinking what the fuck you're doing, out of sheer fear, you pull the door to yourself with all the might you have.

Yoongi produces a short grunt of pain; he has a strange relationship with it. He is barely human; his fingers that he uses to draw blueprints of flower-shaped buildings are caught in between the doorframe and the door for a second, but he is quick like a feline. You can hear him choke a little, then hum, like you simply kicked him in the thigh.

"You and me", he hoots from behind the door, shuffling. Perhaps he is jumping in place not to scream louder.

"This is not a normal thing. You act like I've crossed some boundaries when there were none. Y/N!"

A thunderous bang on the door. You run into the bedroom and try to swipe your phone. Your hands are shaking, and it falls to the floor, pushed away. You get to your knees and hit your head on the underside of the desk, barely feeling it.

You call the police, hearing only your own panting breathing. Yoongi's muffled voice goes,

"We are meant to be, Y/N!"

You have no idea what happened to his hand.

You change apartments.

You change the phone number.

You block him everywhere and check with Namjoon, telling the dude everything.

Yoongi doesn't follow you around the city and doesn't hunt your new address; he doesn't show up at the coffeeshops where you meet with friends, and doesn't pick you up from the studies.

But his presence is heavy like toxic smoke; you hear his breathing in the dead of night, picturing the snowy white silhouette shining in the blue blackness of night.

You still want him. When you want him really bad, you still do not allow yourself to unblock and text him. You know Yoongi will one day put you into the fucking basement.

When you want him really, really bad, remembering the softness of his hands, the eager need of his hips, the piercing stare of his perfectly-shaped eyes, the pale, smooth skin on his soft stomach, you put your hand in between your legs. It's safer. You hope he isn't sitting on your ceiling in those moments, watching you miss him.

He is like a dirty curse, like an ugly STD you know people will judge you for. The new apartment on the other side of the city still somehow bears his smell.

The insidious freedom you get on the first try feels like a fever dream. You fail to catch the dead finality to his words.

taglist: @mar-lo-pap

[jam3sacaster]

I think Rupert would absolutely spoil the reader whether they want him to or not lol😂

But what about reader seeing a dress or something they really love but it's expensive and don't get it and then a few days later it just shows up at their door 👀✨️

most definitely!! 😅 he would honestly spend so much money on you it would be ridiculous 🥰 such a good idea, on it rn!! 🩷

“Forever Yours, R.”

(Rivals) Rupert Campbell-Black x Reader

Suggestion by this sweet anon 🫶🏽 / Rupert seems to have a penchant for gift giving…

18+ FANFIC / Soft Rupert 🥹 Reader character aged at 21.

You much preferred to flick through Rupert’s shopping catalogues than your own. At home, your catalogues were filled with woollen jumpers, middle-aged florals and chunky kitten-heeled boots. Very cute, but very last season. In Rupert’s, there were suave three-piece suits draped on attractive men, tight, breathtaking dresses on even more attractive women, dazzling jewellery and quite possibly the highest heels you have ever seen in your lifetime. “This one’s nice, isn’t it?” You ask Rupert, who was sat beside you on the sofa — puffing hungrily on a thick cigar and flicking through today’s copy of The Scorpion. “Mmm.” He grunted, not looking up from a rather derogatory article about himself, written by a rather familiar journalist.

Your jaw audibly dropped in shock as you flipped the page. There it was. The dress. Electric sapphire blue, pure silk, split hem right up to your pelvis, hugging tightly around the models waist with a plunging neckline. Rupert glanced his eyes towards you at the sound of your lips parting, and quickly transformed his attention back to his paper before you realised. “Wow. That… is… stunning. Look, Rupert! Look how beautiful it is!” You chime, slapping at the glossy paper with widened eyes. “I’ll look in a minute, angel.” He huffed, placing a gentle hand on your knee in order to calm you down. Slightly defeated that your lover didn’t seem to care, you flick to the next page and nonchalantly scan your eyes over the shoes.

-

Exactly nine days later, the weather was crisp and sharp, and the sun was beaming. Tending gently to your newly-blossomed bush of chrysanthemums in the front garden, Rutshire’s postman trudged his way across the gravelled driveway. “Morning!” He beamed, hauling an overloaded, bulging bag over his shoulder. “Good morning!” You chime back, snipping away at the overgrown weeds with a small pair of shears. “Letters for Rupert?” You ask, looking up towards him and protecting your eyes from the dazzling sun with a neon pink gloved hand.

“No, actually. A parcel for you.” He replied, hushing his tone. “I’ll leave it on the doorstep. See you later!” The charming man grinned. Picking yourself up from the floor and dusting your knees of soil, you sprint towards the front door, pulling your gloves off and throwing them onto the floor as you approach. Pushing the front door open and excitedly making your way into the lounge, collapsing onto the sofa and placing the parcel on your lap. The company name on the shipping label wasn’t one that you recognised, so you hurriedly tore open the box to spy a small, black plastic bag. “Huh?” You ask yourself, beginning to tear it open. Under the layers of plastic, you spy the delicate sapphire silk and run your fingers through the creamy fabric. Placed on top was a small, typed-out card. It read,

‘To my angel,

I told you I would look in a minute.

Forever yours, R’

Salted tears beginning to well in your eyes, you pressed a gentle kiss against the card.

[l5mailingsolutions]

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[bamsara]

Hi!

I'm sorry if you already answer this question, but I wanted to know if you plan to ship your keychains (but not only) in Europe? I really like your work (both as artist and author) but I know shipping & taxes can be rough and complicated.

Have a nice day!

I can certainly try, but shipping packages internationally, even small parcels can cost anywhere between $20-$35 in the US to depending on where you are in the world. It's possible but it would kinda null if the shipping costs are more than what the actual keychains are priced for. Maybe not for an order with multiple items, but a single keychain or print wouldn't be worth it.

I'll see what I can do to make the option available. If anyone has any tips or advice, it would be appreciated!

[doodle-pops]

The Weight of Loyalty

Knight!Fingon x reader

A/N: I told you all I wanted to write a yearning Fingon, and my fingers slipped and went down the angst road. I’ll make it up with some fluffy content soon. I’ll take my leave now. Bye and enjoy!

Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, Knight au, Royal au, reader in a forced marriage to another royal, heartbreak, argument, separation

Words: 3.2k

Synopsis: It is well known that royals must marry for political alliances, but when that marriage revolves around you suffering more than being happy, how long could Fingon stand by and play your emotional support, before you return to your husband? He remains your unwavering protector, but even he had his limits…and a heart.

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Your husband’s voice still echoed in the back of your skull long after the door had shut behind you.

“You will not question me again—not in my halls, not in front of others. Learn your place, or I’ll have you shipped back like a parcel your father wrapped too tightly.”

There were moments you should have screamed or slapped him, but all you had done was stand there, spine rigid and throat burning, and let the words sear you from the inside out. Now, the silence outside your chambers felt heavier than the shouting had. The corridor was dim despite the hour—narrow windows let in strips of filtered sun, but the air felt stale, trapped like you were.

Slowly, you traversed the hallway, almost aimlessly, fingers twitching at your sides like they didn’t know what to do when not folded properly in your lap. A few guards passed your way, but none were yours. They were all his, and it made you hate the way they stared—stoic, unreadable, but aware. Clearly, they had heard the exchange. Straightening your posture and lifting your chin, you forced your expression back into that carefully carved mask of serenity.

“Your Highness,” a voice suddenly murmured.

Turning toward it instinctively, your heart stuttering in your chest.

Fingon.

He stepped into the light, having just relieved the last guard of his station. His dark hair was half-pulled back as always; silver armour still dulled with the wear of morning drills. His eyes—blue like sapphires—immediately dropped to your face, and you knew what he saw. It only prompted the corners of your mouth to tighten, while you failed to wipe away the dull wetness in your eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he asked in that famed tender tone he always used with you.

“No,” you said, a little too quickly. “I’m—he was simply upset. It’s nothing.”

He didn’t speak, nor did his expression change, but the slow clench of his jaw betrayed him. You always hated how easy it was for him to see right through you.

“I came out to walk,” you added, grasping for a reason to be there that wasn’t shame. “The air inside was stifling.”

“I can accompany you,” he immediately replied.

“You’re due to patrol the eastern gardens,” you replied. “Your schedule—”

“Let me walk with you.”

Just for a second, you paused, eyes locked onto his face, before nodding. The corridor stretched long ahead of you, polished stone and velvet banners were silent witnesses to your quiet disgrace. You didn’t speak, and neither did he, but he walked beside you, always a half-step behind, hand resting near the pommel of his sword in the same protective stance he’d taken for years. You forced yourself to swallow past the ache in your throat.

“I shouldn’t have come to you like this,” you muttered.

“You always do,” he gently replied with a small degree of firmness which made your eyes sting again.

He turned slightly, just enough to see your face better without breaking stride. “What did he say to you?”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does because you matter.”

There it was. The line he always tiptoed. The one he kept crossing in ways no one else noticed but you. The one you wanted to lean into. Into him. But instead, you exhaled, long and thin, and looked away. “He’s my husband. I must honour him. Even if he—”

“Even if he dishonours you?” His voice was barely more than a breath. “Is that what your marriage vows meant?”

There was no way to answer him; too many answers—none of them the kind a knight should hear from the lips of a married person. So you kept walking, even as the silence between you began to stretch too tightly, until it ached. The gardens weren’t far. Not the grand ones meant for feasts and politics, but the smaller walled one hidden between the old stone corridors and the servant paths. A forgotten corner of the palace. You used to come here every morning before the marriage. Back when Fingon was your only shadow.

Slipping through the narrow gate first, fabric brushing over the gravel path while the iron creaked behind you as he followed. The overgrown hedges and wild rose bushes had claimed the edges of the space, and the low stone bench near the fountain sat untouched under a jacaranda tree. Pale blossoms had started to fall. It made you remember the first time they’d bloomed.

That time, he had brought you here to escape the noise of the court.

Sitting down with a quiet sigh, the moment you did, the memory pressed in like breath against your skin.

—

It had been spring, though the air was still sharp with winter’s bite, when you had complained about your aching feet after standing through another speech that had gone on far too long. And he—ever observant, ever silent—had stepped behind you in the corridor and murmured, “Come with me.”

He led you to this very garden, his hand brushing your elbow to guide you past the thorns. Though he didn’t speak much, not at first, but when he did—

“I do not think you were made for such places,” he had said then, glanced at the empty path. “Courts. Thrones. Masks.”

You snorted. “And what do you think I was made for, Sir Fingon?”

He had hesitated, just a second, but when his eyes met yours, it knocked the air from your chest.

“You were made for the stars.”

It had been a joke or perhaps it wasn’t. You couldn’t tell then and you still weren’t sure. However, you remembered smiling even when you hadn’t meant to.

—

“Do you remember?” Fingon asked quietly behind you, prompting you to glance over your shoulder and notice that he remained standing, straight-backed and distant, as though his presence here, even now, needed permission.

“I do,” you murmured.

“I used to bring you here when the court grew too loud.”

“You still do,” you muttered, almost bitterly. “Some things haven’t changed.”

But they had. Everything had. The distance between you now was no longer decorum. It was pain. It was choices made under the weight of crowns and bloodlines. It was the cold shape of your husband’s ring pressing against your finger when you curled your hands together to hide their trembling.

He finally moved to sit beside you with a measured grace, yet still out of reach. “You’ve changed,” he softly whispered with his eyes ahead.

And you didn’t argue, just closed your eyes, and let the wind carry the memory away. Yet easily the silence returned, but it was no longer gentle. It was taut like a bow drawn too long, and you could feel it in the way Fingon didn’t look at you now. The way his shoulders had set like stone, as though bracing himself. God, you wished he would speak, at the same time, you hoped he wouldn’t.

You wished a thousand things, and none of them came true.

“I’m tired,” he suddenly declared.

You blinked your eyes open. “Then rest.”

“Not like that,” he said, turning his head at last to look at you. “I’m tired of watching you break.”

You stiffened.

“I swore to protect you,” he continued. “But how do I protect you from the man you choose to lie beside every night?”

“That’s not fair,” you calmly stated.

“It isn’t,” he agreed. “None of this is.”

Your mouth went dry. “It wasn’t my choice, Fingon.”

“No,” he confirmed warily. “But staying was.”

Rising to your feet, the bench felt suddenly like a trap, and the air in the garden too thick to breathe. “You presume too much. He is my husband.”

He rose too, slower. “He is your captor.”

“That is treason.”

“Then hang me.”

You stared at him, stunned by the venom in his voice, but it wasn’t rage. It was grief. Bitter, old grief that had been buried too long under years of self-control and half-swallowed longing.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” you said finally.

“No. You came because he hurt you again. You came like you always do, hoping I’ll hold the pieces together until you can gather yourself and return to him.”

Your breath caught. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” he softly inquired. “Because it’s cruel? Or because it’s true?”

You turned your face away, but he stepped forward—just a fraction, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, and the weight of his presence pressing against every part of you that still remembered what it felt like to be seen by someone.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he defeatedly muttered.

Your heart stopped.

“I cannot be the one you run to only when it’s convenient. I cannot watch him bruise your pride, your light, and pretend I’m content with just tending your wounds in silence.”

“I never asked you to—”

“You didn’t have to,” he interrupted, breaking slightly. “I gave myself to you freely. But I am not a sword you can sheath and draw at your leisure.”

The tears burned hot behind your eyes. “I can’t leave. You know I can’t.”

“You can,” he corrected with a smile that almost touched his eyes. “You just won’t.”

You looked at him, at the lines in his face drawn tight with heartbreak, at the sorrow that had replaced the yearning in his eyes. He wasn’t pleading anymore. He was resigning. And the worst part was that you couldn’t even blame him.

“I was going to ask if you would stay the night,” you whispered.

There was a sharp exhale, like the words struck something soft inside him. “I would have said yes. Even knowing it would kill me—” he paused momentarily to compose himself before speaking, “—but I can’t anymore. Because if I do, I might kill him. And I would rather burn for treason than serve a man who dares lay hands, or words, on you like that.”

You opened your mouth to stop him, to offer some comfort, but he shook his head.

“No more,” he mustered. “Do not come to me unless you’re ready to choose something more than your titles.” Then he stepped back. Just one step—but it was a chasm. One you couldn’t cross…not yet, you hoped.

“I… I never meant to use you,” you breathed on the verge of tears. “I never meant to be this cruel.”

He turned slightly, just enough that you could see the curve of his cheek, the profile of his pain etched deep into the lines of his face. “You weren’t cruel,” he corrected patiently. “You were scared. Obedient. Loyal.” He looked back fully then. “Just not to me.”

The truth of it landed hard. You’d always worn loyalty like armour, used it to survive the court, the marriage, the weight of a name that was never really yours. But in the doing, you’d buried something else—something tender, fragile and whole—beneath the suffocating expectations of royalty.

Your voice cracked. “You think I haven’t wanted to choose you?”

His jaw twitched. “Wanting and choosing are not the same.”

The wind stirred the petals again, pale lilac spirals falling between you like ash. You watched him through them, this knight who had never once failed to shield you even from yourself, and now he stood ready to walk away, sword at his hip, honour intact, heart in ruins. “I don’t want to keep coming back like this,” you admitted. “Crying to you like a coward. But I don’t know how else to survive this.”

“You aren’t a coward,” he said. “But you’re choosing a life that devours you because it’s what’s expected. You let them decide for you and then wonder why you feel hollow.”

You stepped forward once, then stopped.

“There are walls,” you said softly. “So many walls between you and me. Marriage, duty, bloodlines. I was born to be used. I’m a bargaining chip. A pretty thing dressed in gold and married off to buy peace.”

He looked at you then like it physically hurt him to agree. “But you don’t have to stay used.” He stepped toward you. Just a step. Then another. And when he was close enough to touch, he didn’t. His hands remained at his sides, fists clenched, shaking slightly. “Tell me to stay,” he whispered lowly, trembling with the last dregs of his restraint. “Tell me to keep protecting you. Not as your knight. As yours.”

He waited for your answer, but when you failed to speak, when all you could do was cry and tremble and ache, he breathed out slowly, as though releasing something final. He stepped back.

“Very well, Your Highness. Then I cannot do this anymore,” he announced with a broken voice. “I love you. But I will not stay to watch you break apart in silence while pretending I do not.”

Sobbing softly into your hand, turning away from him instinctively, you whispered, “F-Fingon…”

“I know,” he said.

—

The door shut behind you with a soft click, but it felt like the world had slammed itself shut instead. You stood there, alone in the centre of your chambers, the golden light of the setting sun painting streaks across the marble floor. It was too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you notice your own breathing, the rustle of fabric, the lonely crackle of the hearth that hadn’t been stoked in hours.

You hadn’t spoken a word since Fingon left the garden. He’d stepped away, and yet it had splintered something deep in you, a crack where there had already been too many.

You pressed your hand to your chest, fingers curled against the fabric just above your heart as if you could hold the pieces together physically. Because without him—without Fingon—you were no longer sure who you were pretending to be. There had always been a ritual to your misery: the fight, the silence, the tears pressed into your pillow, then your quiet escape to find him, your knight who had never once turned you away, no matter how cold or dutiful you’d become.

You hadn’t begged, nor had you wept. You hadn’t even touched him when he’d looked like he needed it most. You’d let him go because that’s what royalty did—stood tall, even as they shattered inside.

Even in times like this, your husband’s patronising voice echoed in your head.

“You’ll do as you’re told. You’re mine now. Forget whatever fantasy you held with that brute. You are my spouse. Not a child anymore.”

He had always hated Fingon. Hated the way he stood too close, the way he looked at you like you were precious, or the way you looked back, even when you didn’t mean to. The connection was never spoken aloud, but it lived in every breath you shared with him, every glance that lingered just too long. And now, you had nothing but the absence of it.

It made you missed him even more.

You missed the man who knew when to speak and when to stand beside you in silence. The one who didn’t flinch when you were cruel with your words because he knew you were trying to protect him. The one who looked at you like you were still whole, even when you felt in pieces. But he was right. You made your choice a hundred times over, and every time it chipped away at what was left between you.

Feeling like the weight of the world was on your shoulders, you flopped onto the floor beside your bed and wallowed in your self-pity, dismissing all who came to request your presence for the rest of the evening. Though the memory of his plea replayed in your mind like a wound that refused to clot. His voice was all cracked and tender.

“Tell me to keep protecting you. Not as your knight. As yours.”

As the days followed, you filled the space of his absence with routine. Letters. Appearances. Words you didn’t believe, smiles that never touched your eyes. But everywhere you turned, you saw him. The shade of his cloak in a passing figure. The rhythm of his footsteps in a guard’s march. A voice too close to his speaking down a corridor. And yet still, the courage to confront him once again, and say something—anything—to fill the gap he left behind fell at your feet. You felt like a coward.

That is until a week passed when his lack of appearance, followed by his voice, and then his presence finally cut you deeply. There was no shadow, no whisper, not even his scent or warmth. Just coldness and absence. That’s when you attempted to seek him out once again, not expecting a heavy withdrawal.

“Haven’t a clue where he went. He left at dawn a week ago, Your Highness,” the steward said. “Didn’t tell a soul. Not even the guards. Just left a single parcel in the armoury with your name on it.”

“A parcel?”

The steward nodded. “Didn’t even touch any of the wealth owed to him. Said it wasn’t why he served.”

Of course he hadn’t.

Later, you waited until nightfall when the halls had emptied and the firelight in the armoury cast long golden shadows. Your fingers curled around the heavy iron ring of keys with the ache of old habit, the clink of metal against the door sending a jolt through your spine like an echo from another life.

The parcel was easy to find. Wrapped in dark cloth, tied in worn leather cord. His handwriting marked the label—simple.

Your name.

No title.

Just you.

You stared at it for a long while, holding it against your chest before unwrapping it slowly, as if it might vanish if you rushed.

Inside was his sword belt. Not the ceremonial one. Not the polished silver he wore before kings. This was the leather one—dark, worn, marred by battle. The one you had helped him repair once when the clasp cracked, and he’d been too stubborn to ask the blacksmith. You’d stitched it yourself, your fingers clumsy with a needle, laughing as he tried not to wince when you pricked him.

Folded inside the belt was a single piece of parchment.

I left the sword. I will not raise it again—not unless it is for you. You are more than what they’ve made you. One day, you’ll remember that. And when you do, I’ll come back. —F

The parchment trembled in your hands as you read it over and over again, hoping that you had accidentally misread the words or the light was playing tricks on your eyes. It wasn’t a declaration or a promise. It was a truth, laid bare, and it pained more than any farewell.

Burying your face in the leather and parchment, you allowed the sobs to escape your chest this time. You didn’t hide the rattles through your bones, stripping you down to the raw thing Fingon had always seen when you tried so hard to be polished, composed, royal.

The candles burned down low, and you refused to move, staying until your tears dried. Until the ache in your chest quieted into something slower, softer, less like grief, more like remembrance. Until you opened your eyes and realised what you had done.

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @involuntaryspasms @sakurayaxd @aconstructofamind @stormchaser819 @addaigio @6esi @will-0-wsps @the0twst0shrimp0mc @zheiya @ella-error505 @feanorynz @xximmortalkissxx

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[rosesrotofficial]

first ever merch run was a success! :)

just shipped out all the parcels! i'll print more if all goes well <3

final stats are:

printed: 20 prints

types of prints: a festive dream (kc crew), i think i'm dying again (thernin), antichrist on the cross (ronin)

16 sold at kofi/patreon early merch access!

xmas sold out at kofi/patreon early merch access.

there was only [x1] thernin and [x3] ronin left when it went public (thernin was more popular than the ronin print, which was a welcome surprise!)

4 sold when it went public (sold out under 10 mins!)

extra bonus [x1] thernin small poster to celebrate the run, also sold out under 10 mins (!)

if shipping goes well and i do a second merch run, i'm going to be keeping this format of kofi/patreon subscribers getting their early + first pick, then opening it to the public once they're done with their haul <3

[dfortrafalgar]

Special Delivery

(Sanji x Fem!Reader)

Red-Leg Zeff wakes up to surprising visitors.

You can read Part 1 here! Original AO3 link

Days on the open ocean were long and monotonous.  It was a decent struggle to keep track of the sunrises and sunsets, but Red-Leg Zeff had developed a system, very recently at that.

Next to a parchment letter and three photographs he nailed to the wall of his captain’s quarters, he tacked up a separate piece of paper and made a tally mark for each day that passed since he received the small parcel.  Each day that went by was another day of inwardly hoping to see the image of the Thousand Sunny off the deck of the Baratie.  It was wishful thinking, and Zeff was a level-headed man, not one for futile hopes or daydreaming, but could you blame him?  He had a grandchild and a daughter-in-law, all things considered, anyway.

The three photographs that Sanji had sent in the package were what greeted him every time he awoke, and were the last images he saw behind his eyelids as he shut in for sleep.  As the days turned into weeks, and then months, and now well over a year according to his tallies, and as Zeff’s braided facial hair continued to slowly turn gray at the roots, the pictures stayed the same.

Like clockwork, Zeff rose from his stiff mattress before the sun rose in the morning, stretching his aging muscles and groaning.  He gazed off across the room at the photos hung on his wall.

“Good morning, Sa–”

“CAPTAIN ZEFF, YOU’RE NEEDED ON THE BOW.”

Patty’s booming voice outside the thin wooden door sent a startled shockwave through Zeff.  He jumped and yelped at the commotion.  Followed by the command, a pounding on the door caused the blonde man to grumble and stomp across his small cabin towards the noise.  He swung open the door, right before Patty threw his fist into the wood for the hundredth time.

“What in the fresh hell do you want?  You’re gonna wake up the whole crew, you oaf.”  Zeff rubbed two calloused fingertips against the bridge of his wrinkled nose.

Eagerly, with a light in his eyes, Patty waved a hand in the direction of the ship’s bow.  “There’s a large vessel spotted approaching from northwest, about ten miles away.  It looks like a pirate ship but we couldn’t make out the image on the sail.”

Zeff stepped into his one boot and rolled up his pants around his peg-leg, making it easier for him to walk.  He firmly gripped his chef’s cap in his hand as he marched past Patty and closed his door behind the two of them, leading him out to the front of the Baratie.  It took them a few moments to roam down the flights of stairs to the lower deck and dining hall, and upon opening the large double doors to the outer deck, he spotted his kitchen crew huddled around Carne, who firmly gripped a pair of binoculars in his large hands.

“What are you all doing?” Zeff’s voice boomed over the hushed whispers of the kitchen staff, who quickly turned their heads to address their captain.  He pushed past the men and placed a firm hand on Carne’s shoulder, yanking him back slightly and grabbing the binoculars out of his hands, holding them up to his own eyes.

“It’s definitely a pirate ship, Captain, but my eyes are shot,” Carne eagerly noted.  Zeff merely grumbled in response.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the binocular lenses, but when they did he managed to make out a fairly clear picture of a ship in the distance, now well less than ten miles away and approaching quite rapidly.  Definitely a large pirate ship.  It had a very odd looking nautical figurehead, almost like a sunflower he assumed, but his heart leaped into his throat when his blurry eyes focused on the primary sail which flowed outward, fully unraveled and pushing the vessel towards the Baratie.

A simple Jolly Roger, a rudimentary skull and crossbones design, with a peculiar red-banded straw hat placed on the head of the skull.

“Should we man the–” Patty began to ask, before being cut off by Zeff.

“It’s the Straw Hats.  Prepare the mooring ropes and fenders, they’re going to tie up to us.”  Zeff shoved the binoculars back into the chest and hands of Carne, who once again put them to his face and gazed at the sail of the ship.  The rest of the kitchen staff ran to awaken the boat crew and make the necessary preparations for a vessel connection.  

“Sanji?” Patty simply asked, with sudden wonder in his voice.

“Hopefully,” Carne responded, passing the binoculars to his coworker.  “It’s definitely them.  Look at their Jolly Roger.”

Zeff had turned his back to his two right-hand men to help the others prepare the baratie’s starboard side for the tie-up.  Crew men, freshly shaken awake from their slumbers, bustled around the lower deck tossing heavy, tightly coiled ropes to each other, tying them around the deck’s bollards and laying them down to make them easier to access when the Thousand Sunny would pull up alongside.  Zeff quickly found that there wasn’t much for him to do, the sight of his crew excitedly scurrying around as the news of the Straw Hats’ return to the Baratie spread like wildfire from the mouths of the men bringing a fond smile to the old man’s face.

Now within enough distance to the Straw Hats’ ship that they could hear the excited yelling of their captain perched cross-legged on the top of the figurehead, waving his hand in the air.  A few of the other crew members leaned over the side of the ship, excitedly waving to the Baratie crew.  Once close enough, a large, strangely built blue-haired man launched a heavy rope from the deck of the Sunny downwards towards the Baratie’s crew, who grabbed it and began to pull it taught.  An orange-haired woman (Zeff thought she looked familiar) instructed the sails to be furled while the larger men of the ship helped the Baratie’s sailors moor the two vessels together.  A few stragglers from the floating restaurants crew looked through their portholes at the commotion.  Carne and Patty assisted the blue-haired man (were his arms made of metal?) in raising a gangway for the Straw Hats to board the Baratie, but their captain, still donned in the same straw hat that he wore when they first visited the luxury cruiser, wasted no time in launching himself off of the figurehead and landing with a hard thud on the wooden deck.

“Hey, Geezer!”  His smile almost covered his entire face.  “Do you have any food?”

“Luffy, seriously?  Can you not wait a single minute?”

A familiar voice caused Zeff to turn his head.  Through the hustle of the crews finishing their mooring duties, a head of bright blonde hair and a thin trail of gray smoke met the old chef’s view.  He immediately broke out into a fond smile.  Sanji was leaning precariously over the side of the Sunny, any more and he would tip over the side, a large grin on his face.  Next to him was a young woman, a bit shorter than him, with a steady hand placed on his shoulder ensuring that he didn’t fall overboard.  She gazed down at Zeff, and her face broke into a grin just as large as Sanji’s.

He recognized her as the woman in the photographs.  She was just as beautiful in person.

The gangway was successfully tied, joining the two boats together, and the two first mates excitedly welcomed the Straw Hats aboard the Baratie.  The four who had already visited almost five years prior marveled at the impressive renovations done to the vessel.  New decks, refurbished dining and lounging, impressive paintwork on the outer hull.  The same blue-haired man from before (his arms were made of metal!) was starstruck by the craftsmanship of the restaurant and immediately began asking questions to a few of the crewmen.  A green-haired man with three swords on his hip and a shorter man with curly black hair greeted Carne and Patty with excitement, remembering the two of them from their first visit.  The two women from the Straw Hats, with tangerine and black hair, quickly exited the gangway and joined their companions.  Zeff watched curiously as a skeleton donned in formalwear hauled himself over the side of the Sunny, followed by a fishman.  The Straw Hats were a very curious bunch, but he was filled with a giddy, child-like joy at the sight of them all, healthy, fit, and just as excited as his own crew was for the surprise reunion.

Sanji and his wife disappeared from the side of the Sunny, but quickly reappeared.  Sanji was the first to step onto the gangway before turning around and taking something from his wife, who swiftly followed his lead.  She looked like a natural on the water, and Zeff hummed, pleased.  Sanji turned around to march down the ramp, a child held in his arms, tightly gripping his shirt in her fist.  The two were the last to disembark, and immediately headed toward the Baratie's captain, who stood in mild shock as the three approached.

Sanji passed the child back to his wife so he could greet Zeff with a handshake, but he was beaten by the captain’s speed as he enveloped the smaller man in a bear hug, almost lifting him off his feet.

“Sanji,” he muttered, voice quivering.  “You look incredible.”

“Hey, no crying on me now, Zeff,” Sanji returned the gesture in kind, squeezing his adopted father back and jostling the hat on the older man’s head.  

The two released their warm embrace, and Sanji held out a hand towards his wife and the child in her arms.  The woman stepped forward with a warm smile.

“Red-Leg Zeff, it’s an honor to finally meet you!” she said with profound enthusiasm before introducing herself.  “Sanji’s been talking nonstop about this visit and how excited he’s been to see you again!”

Sanji flushed, embarrassed, but Zeff could only muster a hardy laugh.  He remembered Sanji as a stubborn, hard-to-crack kid, endlessly determined and stopping at nothing to get his way, and the man who stood before him was all of that and more.  He was gazing tenderly at his wife, cheeks rosy with embarrassment and adoration, a smile adorning his thin lips.  Zeff was beyond proud of the man Sanji had become.

“So, who’s this little one?” he asked, cautiously approaching the child in the woman’s arms.  His heart fluttered at the sight of her.

She had wavy, strawberry blonde hair and her dad’s ocean-blue eyes.  A mixture of her mom and dad’s skin tone, and she was clearly developing Sanji’s facial features.  The right corners of her eyebrows had a very slight upward curl.  She was beautiful, and her large eyes gazed curiously at Zeff as he approached.

“Sora, this is your grandfather,” the woman said affectionately.  “Say hi!”  She bounced the baby on her hip.  

When she came to the infantile conclusion that Zeff was indeed not a threat, her chubby cheeks wrinkled with a smile revealing a few barely there baby teeth.  Zeff held out one of his thick, calloused fingers, and she eagerly reached for the man.  Sanji’s wife passed the baby, Sora, over to him, and he held her like a delicate porcelain pot, like she could break at any moment.  Sanji watched the action fondly.

“Her name is Sora, she’s almost two now,” he said, his voice light and airy, almost a whisper.

Zeff bounced Sora, his granddaughter, in his arms, and she released a shrill giggle which brought a smile to his face.  “Sora…”  He knew that was Sanji’s late mother’s name.  It seemed only natural that his daughter would take the honor of bearing her name.  “She’s beautiful,” he sighed, looking at his son and daughter-in-law.  

Sanji looked like he was fighting back tears at the sight of his honorary father holding his daughter.  His wife gently squeezed his hand, and the floodgates leaked, making her chuckle.

“He’s been a bit nervous,” she said toward Zeff.

The gruff captain stepped toward his son and ruffled his smooth blonde hair in his free hand.  Sanji sniffled, picking his head up and wiping his eyes on his sleeve.  His shoulders trembled slightly with the motion of his repressed crying, but he quickly shoved it down and locked eyes with the fatherly ones staring at him.  Zeff didn’t need to ask any questions to know how much a moment like this meant to Sanji.  A child so wronged by his family and the world, growing up with no purpose, no encouragement, losing the one source of love in his life, forced to age so rapidly to survive some of the worst experiences a human should ever have to face.  To have been blessed with a crew that cared for him, fulfilling his dreams, practicing his passion, meeting one special woman who loved and supported him, and being the father of his own child, Sanji was finally content.  He was finally happy, finally content.

Zeff’s voice cracked as he uttered the sentence that he knew would make Sanji crumble.  “I’m so proud of you, son.  Look at how far you’ve come.”

Sanji’s blue eyes welled with tears that he had been holding in since his own childhood.  The commotion from the rest of the two crews faded into a muffled static as Zeff pulled Sanji’s head into his chest, holding him close.  Sora’s hand lightly smacked the top of Sanji’s hair, making him laugh, but it came out as a crackled sob.  His wife laughed, rubbing his back.

“I didn’t want to cry,” he uttered into Zeff’s chest, voice blank with slight resentment.  

“It was inevitable,” you responded with a humorous lilt.

“I know.”  He easily relented to your words, picking his head up from Zeff and placing a hand on his father’s shoulder, giving it a firm smack.  “Sorry for getting your shirt all wet, old man.”

Zeff’s chest bounced with the force of his laughter.  “You’re gonna pay for it, kid.  You’re on dish duty.”

Sanji’s mouth fell open in a panicked retaliation, but after realizing Zeff was, in fact, joking around, his tense shoulders fell in relief.  Sora reached back out toward her mom, who took her from Zeff’s grasp leaving both his hands free again.  He was able to deliver a quick, encouraging slap on Sanji’s back.

“I do expect you to help prepare this feast, though.  Show me how much you’ve improved since you left.”  He winked at his son.  “Though, I doubt you improved that much.”

“Shut up, old man!  I’ll make you the best feast you’ve ever laid eyes on.  A feast that could kill you!”  Old habits die hard, and the family meandered towards the rest of the crew, who were now milling around the lower dining hall excited for a meal to celebrate the Straw Hats’ return, and Zeff’s new granddaughter.

Zeff clapped his hands, alerting his own crew, who frantically took their places around the ship to cater to their pirate guests.  He quickly made his way into his kitchen, rustling through the main pantry for a piece of equipment he hadn’t needed to use in a very long time.  He pulled out a small food processing machine, equipped with an internal blade perfect for mashing fruits and small vegetables.

“Captain, do you need anything?” Patty was rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands in the large wash basin.

“All the fresh fruit we have.  The kid doesn’t have teeth yet, she needs some mush.”

[jenoslutie]

Electric Hearts l k.mg (TEASER)

Synopsis: In a drunken haze, Mingyu orders a sex robot but has no recollection of it even happening. Now he has a sex robot thats way too realistic constantly trying to seduce him. Will Mingyu give in?

Pairing: Mingyu x Sex Robot!Reader

Genre: Smut, Sex robot reader, porn with plot

Teaser warnings: Fem!reader, Suggestive (not really but mentions of sex) afab reader, Wonwoo is in this like alot but he is just there as Mingyu's roommate, Reader is literally a robot LOL but she's very realistic.

Teaser word count: 665

“Mingyu!” Wonwoo called out “Your parcel is here!” dragging the abnormally big parcel into their living room and Mingyu trotted over into the living room where Wonwoo was with the box. 

“I didn’t order that” Mingyu yawned, still roaming somewhere in dreamland. Wonwoo shoots him a confused look, scanning the box for any sort of indication of who it was for until he saw a label reading the recipient as ‘Mingyu Kim’ 

“It’s yours dude, it says your name and everything” Mingyu took a look at the box and sure enough, the shipping label read his name. He remembers he was drinking a few days back but he’s almost positive he wouldn’t have ordered something this huge, under the influence or not. Accepting his fate, Mingyu dragged the box into his room and tried to look for any other indication of what it might be, the shipping label only had the sender address written in some language he definitely did not know how to read. Grabbing a pair of scissors from his and Wonwoo’s shared bathroom, he carefully cut the box open and that's when he saw it. His eyes widened in confusion. Placed carefully within the confines of the box sat a…naked human?

“Wonwoo!” Mingyu shrieked, hearing his roommate dart towards his room. 

“Look inside the box.” Wonwoo wordlessly trudged towards the box and that's when he saw it too. A human? That's naked? Inside a box that his roommate ordered? The two of them stood in silence, staring at the box until something clicks. 

“Hold on” Wonwoo broke the silence, extending his hand with hesitant fingers towards you inside the box. As his fingertips brushed against the smooth surface of your cheek, a shiver coursed down his spine. Instead of the expected warmth of human skin, his touch was met with a cold sensation. Wonwoo’s gaze flickered up to Mingyu who was looking at him with the same confusion in his eyes, his mind struggling to understand what’s happening.  

At Wonwoo’s touch, your eyes lit up, looking up at the two men staring down at you. “Hello”, you greeted, trying to adjust to the faces of the men in front of you. They looked down at you baffled and you realize they might not be aware of what you are. You stepped out of the box, making the men even more confused than they already were. 

“I suppose you haven't realized, I’m a robot.” You explain, moving your hair to the side to reveal the small charging port at the nape of your neck. Failing to get either of the men to talk, you take matters into your own hands.

“My name is Y/N, I’m a robot that was recently developed for sexual use” The taller one of the two gasps while the shorter one with glasses freezes. 

“A sex robot?” The taller man shrieks, much like the first time when he first opened the box. You take his hands in yours and place them on your chest, letting him feel you up. “I’m designed to please you” A part of Mingyu was freaked out by the advancement of technology that stood before him but another part of him couldn’t help but be turned on. 

“Without further ado, I’ll begin the usage tutorial!” 

Mingyu felt like he could almost pass out. What the hell did he get himself into? He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice you inch closer to him, taking his face in your soft hands and pressing your lips onto his. 

He jolted as your soft lips touched his, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't enticed by you but the shock of the situation made it hard for him to even react to the kiss.

“Master, why aren’t you paying attention to me?”  Your voice was whiny, something neither Mingyu or Wonwoo knew was possible. The two men were at a loss of words as they watched your next steps. You sat down on Mingyu’s bed, spreading your legs to reveal your perfectly sculpted pussy. Needless to say, both men were baffled at how perfect and detailed it was. 

“Can you actually put stuff in there?” Wonwoo questioned, mostly to himself but you ended up responding,

“That’s what I was built for! Would you like to give it a try?"

a/n: hiii <3 this is a snippet of my mingyu x sex robot fic, Electric Hearts! please let me know if you enjoyed and if its worth continuing HAHA i dont wanan write it all just for no one to be on the same wavelength as me </3 feedback is appreciated!! :D

[lackadaisycats]

so, seeing quite a few people mention they've recieved their books from the backerkit, are US based backers being prioritised more so than european ones? because as a euro backer I just recently checked my order which shows the items haven't even been shipped so far, making me wonder whether I should worry something went wrong with the order or if I just have to be a little bit more patient? which is totally fair btw if that is the case, I'm just bit of a worrywart, heh

The fulfiller is sending out as many parcels a day as they can manage. Despite their small size, they do work fast in our experience, but the postal truck that comes to pick up the packages from their warehouse every day can only fit so many books on it at a time. So, some books just haven't made it out the door yet. To my knowledge, domestic shipped books were not prioritized over international shipments, but domestic packages will tend to arrive at their destinations faster simply because they don't have that far to go, and won't need to pass through customs. I wouldn't be concerned that anything is amiss just yet, but if you have ongoing worries, you can reach out to support(at)ironcirus.com, or leave a comment/message in the Community tab on the BackerKit Campaign page. The support team passes through regularly to answer questions, handle address changes, and if it comes to it, they can contact the fulfiller directly to confirm the order exists in their system. (We're just presently trying not to distract them by issuing lots of check-ins on specific orders because we know shipping is ongoing.) That being said, thank you for your support, and for your patience! We're doing our best to get everyone their books this summer!