#WITHOUT A SINGLE LINE OF DIALOGUE

[thedemonsurfer]

It's really not all that surprising that the Daycare Attendant ended up being so popular, to the point that there's a whole subsection of FNAF fandom that's p much just the DCA.

For starters, there's Security Breach itself. Security Breach is a vastly different FNAF game from its predecessors. Instead of being a jumpscare-driven task management simulator, it is a free-roam exploration and puzzle game, also with jumpscares. Instead of a security guard with their butt glued to their office chair, you're playing as a kid trapped in the mall. That difference in format and story setup attracted a whole new crowd of players to FNAF.

Next is character design. Unlike the majority of animatronics in the killer robot furry franchise, the DCA is a lanky, vaguely human shaped jester with a dinnerplate head and a creepy fixed smile. That appeals to folks who might not be as much into the robot furries, but like lanky creepy jesters (I am one of those people).

Security Breach also FINALLY develops the animatronics into actual characters, rather than interchangeable jumpscares. It's not a coincidence that prior to SB, the most popular animatronic was Springtrap-- an animatronic outright possessed by the defacto main antagonist of the series. I still remember the sheer fuzzy excitement upon hearing the first teaser trailer where we found out that we would be playing as a kid and that Freddy was our friend. That's still so cool! Freddy is our friend!

But character is where the Daycare Attendant really blows everyone else out of the water.

Sun is, after Freddy and Vanessa, the NPC with the most lines of dialogue (ten). Sun and Vanessa are the only antagonists that speak directly to Gregory, rather than just having vague hunting lines. For comparison, of the Glamrocks only Roxy has a single line of interaction with another animatronic ("Get out of my room, Freddy!") and her pep talk in the mirror at the start of the game. Monty and Chica might as well be interchangeable, both only having hunting lines.

Hell, out of Moon's nineteen voice lines, eight of them are laughs, blowing away Vanny's whopping two lines in the entire game.

Sun is the only* FNAF antagonist that does not have a jumpscare sting when he grabs Gregory, and is one of the few antagonists that does not kill the player upon jumpscaring them. Sun is outright non-hostile towards Gregory, coming off as overbearing but genuinely friendly. In a FNAF game.

Kellen Goff's phenomenal voice acting further fleshes out the DCA's character, giving us solid foundations for their personalities. Sun is anxious, friendly, and bossy. Moon is a downright giggle gremlin, sadistic and playful. Both of them are childish, and the contrast between their personalities and their job as child caretakers makes them stand out even more.

It's also worth mentioning that the Daycare is one of the earliest sections of the game, easily reached within the first thirty minutes of playtime. This makes it very likely to have been seen by people who either ended up not finishing the game itself, or any let's play series they were watching. It's also one of the most complete sections of the game, with clear, easy to understand mechanics and a decent challenge, making it more enjoyable to play than some of the later puzzles.

So, yeah. Why wouldn't there be a whole subsection of fandom built around some of the most well developed and interesting characters in the entire franchise, from an installment that attracted a new crowd of people who were probably already looking for something different from the traditional FNAF experience?

*As far as I know there are no other FNAF animatronics that perform a jumpscare animation without an accompanying sound, but it's not impossible that there's someone in UCN that I've overlooked.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

i know i kiinnda said something about this before but katsuki becomes a fucking comedian when you’re around. genuinely think he would not miss an opportunity to make you laugh. like he’s just so crude and unfiltered, so funny without even trying. any chance he can make you snort and laugh at loud he’ll take it.

he’ll comment on how stupid characters act in movies or how dumb the dialogue is when you watch a bad movie on purpose. or he copies the lines to make you laugh (i feel like he’d genuinely love watching bad movies I DONT CAREEEEE)

he’ll send you notes and lean over to whisper about something in your ear and like hold back tears while you’re silently losing your shit. silly loverboy

and every single time he makes you laugh it’s just that damn smirk. he’s just so proud of himself for it, and your reaction always gets a chuckle out of him. when you banter and joke back an forth you are genuinely the only person he’ll laugh around. all wheezey and loud and pitched, gripping his stomach and smacking your arm till it hurts. sigh i love him

[youthguk]

✦Encore 3: Curtain call (Finale) | jjk (m)✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: “Some endings beg to be rewritten.”.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, unprotected sex (be responsible!), angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 13k

author's note: I don’t have enough words to describe what Encore means to me — but maybe that’s the magic of it. This story was born from a single spark of tension, and it grew into something raw, aching, layered, and deeply personal. I poured so much of my soul into this series — every whisper of heartbreak, every charged glance, every line of dialogue that trembled with what wasn’t said. From the first quiet heartbreak to the final kiss — thank you for letting me write it all. Encore will always have a piece of my heart.

part 1 | part 2 | final (you're here)

The hallway is quiet.

Dante’s penthouse suite glows gold behind you, warm and opulent, his cologne still lingering faintly at the collar of your dress, though he never touched you. You stand in your heels, spine stiff, lips parted — trying to think of something elegant to say, something that doesn’t sound like you’re choking on guilt and regret and the echo of Jungkook’s name.

He watches you with that half-lidded charm he wears like a signature suit, loose and luxurious, as if nothing ever truly touches him — not press, not rejection, not women who shift under his gaze but don’t fall.

You inhale sharply and speak, voice smooth even as your fingers tremble at your sides.

“I can’t.”

He doesn’t move. Just smiles.

“You can’t,” he repeats, like it amuses him. “Is this the part where you tell me about office ethics?”

You nod once, but your tone doesn’t waver. “It’s Vogue Korea policy. Editors don’t sleep with partners, clients, or hosts.”

“And I,” Dante murmurs, stepping closer, “am powerful enough to change policy.”

You meet his eyes — calm, perfectly still — and it should be easy to pretend. You’re practiced at this, at being unreadable, untouchable, above desire. But something cracks. And you don’t know if it’s the scent of Jungkook still trapped in your memory, or the way your heart has been aching in silence since you left him in that hallway, but the words leave your mouth before your pride can stop them.

“I can’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “Because my heart’s already taken.”

Dante's expression shifts, a subtle change that sends a chill down your spine. His carefully crafted smile twists into something unreadable as he takes a careful step back.

And then, slowly, his lips curl into something that isn’t quite mocking and isn’t quite sincere. His voice is velvet with a blade hidden underneath.

“First time I’ve ever been used by a woman to get back at someone else,” he says, almost like a toast. “I hope he’s worth all this theater.”

The words hang heavy in the air. You can't bring yourself to answer.

You leave without another word, dress whispering around your legs, hair falling loose as the night finally breaks over your shoulders like a closing curtain. The air outside bites at your skin, sharp and alpine-cold, and the valet raises an eyebrow when you step into the waiting taxi without giving a destination.

“Anywhere,” you say, voice soft, eyes distant. “Just… drive.”

Lake Como flickers by like a dream unraveling, all soft lamplight and shuttered balconies and cobbled hills bleeding into the next. Your cheek leans against the window, chilled glass numbing the side of your face, and you watch the world blur as if motion will erase everything you did, everything you wanted, everything you still feel clawing beneath your ribs.

Lake Como's beauty feels like a cruel joke against your emptiness, its picturesque streets and twinkling lights mocking the deafening silence that reminds you with every step that he didn't come after you this time.

You don’t return until the sky begins to lighten with the haze of dawn, pale lavender washing over the peaks like the softest lie. Your heels echo on the marble of the hotel corridor, a ghost retracing her steps. You dig for your key card, heart still beating too fast, thoughts already shifting to how you'll pack your suitcase in silence, how you’ll leave everything that happened in Italy behind.

Rounding the corner to your door, you freeze in your tracks. The sight before you knocks the air from your lungs: Jungkook lies slumped against your suite door, his usually pristine appearance now a portrait of violence. His head rests back against the wall, revealing a swollen-shut eye and split lip crusted with dried blood. His black dress shirt, now wrinkled and stained crimson, clings to his beaten form while his raw, scraped knuckles tell their own story of the fight.

Your clutch slips from your grasp as instinct takes over. You’re on your knees in seconds, hands on his face, your voice breaking apart with panic as you shake him gently, his lashes fluttering under your touch.

“Jungkook—what—oh my god, what happened—what did you—Jungkook, wake up—”

His eyes barely open, dazed and unfocused, lips parting with a soft groan as you press your palm to his cheek.

“Shh—don’t talk, fuck, just—come on, I need—fuck, we need to get you inside—”

You fumble with the key card, hand trembling, managing to drag the door open and guide his weight into your arms. He’s deadweight at first, but then his hand finds your waist, clutches it faintly, and he lets you lead him inside — not out of strength, but because he trusts you still, even like this.

The suite is still dark. You ease him onto the velvet chaise by the window and rush to the bathroom for towels, first aid, anything — your chest heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears. When you return, he’s sitting hunched over, elbows on his knees, blood dripping sluggishly from the corner of his mouth, but his gaze finds you when you kneel in front of him.

“Y/N,” he rasps, and it sounds more like worship than pain. “You’re here.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, tears hot at your temples. “Don’t talk. Not until I clean this up.”

You press warm cloth to his lip, swearing under your breath when he flinches.

“What the fuck did you do, Jungkook? Who did this to you?”

He doesn’t answer. You dab at the blood on his temple, your fingers gentle, and when you ask again — slower this time, voice shaking — he finally speaks.

“I went after him.”

You freeze and your hand stills against his skin.

“You—what?”

“Dante,” he murmurs, head dropping. “I followed you both. I couldn’t— I thought— I didn’t know if he—”

You close your eyes. “Jungkook—”

“He was alone,” he says, voice hoarse. “I found his place. I lost it. I yelled. Demanded to know where you were. I… I swung at him. I tried to hit him.”

“You what?!”

“His bodyguards came before I got far. They—” he pauses, gesturing vaguely to his bloodied state. “They handled it.”

“They told me you left,” he adds, quietly. “That nothing happened. That you said no.”

You stare at him, heart caving inward.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you whisper, hands trembling again as they fall to your lap.

“I know,” he breathes. “But I couldn’t lose you. Not again. I—I’d rather bleed for you than live pretending I don’t still love you.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. Dangerous. Irrevocable.

You meet his gaze, see the red blooming beneath his eye, the vulnerability split right down the middle of his mouth, and you don’t think — you just lean forward.

And kiss him. Soft at first. Searching. Trembling. But then he surges into it — one hand gripping your thigh, the other cradling your jaw — and the kiss turns deep, slow, devouring. Your tears mix with the blood on his lip, and still you don’t stop. Your fingers curl into his ruined shirt, and his tongue brushes yours like a promise, like a prayer, like a please, please don’t leave me this time.

His lips are cracked, faintly bloodied at the corner, but the kiss is impossibly soft. He moves like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again, like this moment is a thread and he’s terrified to tug it too hard. His hands find your waist — trembling, careful — while yours grip the sides of his face, fingertips brushing over bruised cheekbones and sweat-damp curls.

You kiss him like you’re trying to make sense of all the ruined years. He kisses you like you’re the only reason he’s still breathing.

And when you finally pull away — chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, the silence trembling between your mouths — you whisper, “You need to stop.”

But he doesn’t let go. His eyes are glassy now, lashes wet, pupils wide with everything he’s been swallowing for years. His fingers slide from your waist to your hands, curling around your wrists like he’s trying to anchor himself in them.

“Please,” he breathes, and his voice cracks on the word and you freeze.

“Y/N,” he says again, and this time, the plea is quieter — more broken. “Don’t send me away. Not like this. Not when I just found you again.”

He’s crying now — not the dramatic kind, not the kind that demands anything from you. Just quiet tears slipping down his cheeks, landing in the creases of his lips, the bruises on his skin. The boy who left you all those years ago has become a man who’s falling apart in your hotel room, weeping for a version of you he never stopped needing.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he says, voice trembling, hands tightening slightly on yours. “I know I was selfish, and cowardly, and fucking blind. But I’m not that kid anymore. I’m not running. I’d stay this time. I’d stay even if it killed me.”

You feel your heart twist, stretch, threaten to shatter. But you’ve rebuilt too many pieces of yourself alone to let them crack again now.

You reach up, thumbs brushing away the wetness on his face, and it breaks something in you to see how he leans into your touch like it’s the only comfort he’s known.

Still, your voice stays steady. “You need to go pack. Our flight leaves in a few hours.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t care about the flight.”

You step back slightly, but his hands follow — ghosting over your hips, then gripping them, desperate.

“Please,” he chokes out, voice cracking again, lower now, raw like his throat’s been scraped hollow. “Please don’t ask me to walk away. Not after this. Not when I finally—”

You shake your head, gently, firmly. “Jungkook—”

“I’ll stay,” he says. “I’ll wait. I’ll do anything. Just... don’t let this be the end. Don’t shut me out again.”

His eyes are shining, his hands trembling as they slide up your arms, as if trying to memorize the shape of you through his touch alone. He leans in again, forehead resting against yours, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye onto your cheek. It doesn’t sting — it only reminds you how close he still is.

“I love you,” he whispers, wrecked and breathless. “I love you more than I’ve ever known how to say. And I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything, but please—don’t send me back into a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

Your eyes flutter shut. You want to say yes. You want to let him stay, crawl back into his arms, pretend it’s enough — just this moment, just this need. But you can’t.

You open your eyes and lift your hands, placing them softly over his as you gently — almost tenderly — remove them from your waist.

“You need to go,” you whisper.

His lips tremble. You press a kiss to his forehead — one final grace — and then step away completely.

“This,” you murmur, voice steady even as it aches, “stays in Italy.”

He lingers in the doorway, eyes searching yours one last time. His fingers trace the doorframe, hesitating.

"Y/N..." His voice catches, barely a whisper.

You keep your gaze steady, arms crossed against your chest. The silence stretches between you like a physical thing.

Finally, his shoulders slump. Without another word, he turns away, each step heavy with resignation. The door opens with a soft creak, then closes behind him with a quiet click that echoes through the empty room.

You stand there in the darkness, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway until there's nothing left but the hum of the air conditioning and the weight of your decision settling into your bones.

Seoul, One Month Later

There is something strangely comforting about the hum of the Vogue Korea office — the way espresso steams through the marble-counter café bar on the sixth floor, the way heels echo down glass-lined corridors, and how every monitor glows with Pantone palettes, layout grids, and a rotating carousel of pre-spring collection drafts. You’ve always found sanctuary in this rhythm — the precision, the pressure, the need to be perfect and perform it effortlessly.

The November air is sharp, bracing as it filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Seoul glints outside like a jewelry box, all chrome and movement, as you sip your Americano from a Maison Kitsuné mug and scan the proofs spread across your desk — feature layouts for Chanel Beauty, three possible headlines for the Balenciaga editorial, and a string of half-formed notes for a Seoul Fashion Week retrospective you were too tired to finish last night.

Your laptop pings. You don’t flinch. Another edit request for the holiday issue. You glance at the schedule on your phone — back-to-back today, copy deadlines and a round-table pitch for the February Valentine’s campaign — and somewhere in the middle of it, a fitting appointment with a model who’ll be shot draped in Loewe’s upcoming campaign shawls.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve trained your body to move without letting the inside show. No one here knows what happened in Italy.

No one knows how you’ve been waking up at 3:17 a.m. every night since, sheets tangled between your legs, the ghost of his breath still hot on your neck. No one sees the way your hand freezes sometimes while drafting interviews, your mind skipping like a scratched vinyl — back to the way he whispered your name while tasting your skin. Back to the blood on his mouth. The way he kissed you like dying was an option.

You touch yourself to that memory more than you’d ever admit. And when you come, you hate how softly you whisper his name.

But none of it shows. Not here. Not between the racks of sample clothes or in the chilled hush of the editors' lounge or when Kara walks by with that same acidic smile she’s been wearing all month. You’ve noted how her eyes linger on you longer than necessary — not in jealousy anymore, but in something more deliberate. It doesn’t matter. You’ve been avoiding her since Italy, and you plan to continue doing so.

You’re in the middle of annotating a Burberry accessory spread when the PA chimes: a department meeting in fifteen minutes. You slide on your blazer — cream Jacquemus — and gather your notes, making your way to the long oval conference room on the east side of the floor.

The glass walls are half-frosted, the room already filled with editors in signature blacks and muted creams. You take your seat. Smooth your skirt. Sip from your water bottle.

You are calm, unshakeable. Until you hear his name.

“I want to thank everyone for the incredible performance on the October cover,” your boss begins, her tone clipped, composed, the sleeves of her Céline coat folded neatly against her chair. “The BTS feature put us back on the map, and the numbers are better than projected. That being said, January needs to go even bigger. Jeon Jungkook will be launching his solo album that month, and we’ve secured him as our January cover.”

Your pen doesn’t fall. Your posture doesn’t shift. But inside? A slow twist, somewhere between the throat and the spine.

“Y/N will lead the campaign again,” she continues, not even looking at you — because of course, it’s a given now. “Photoshoot. Feature article. Backstage access. His team already agreed. You’ll follow his schedule — starting with the Louis Vuitton shoot next week, then trailing him through his album production.”

The table buzzes lightly with murmurs — approving, congratulating. Someone across the table says, “Well deserved,” and another smiles at you and adds, “Iconic pairing.” You offer a diplomatic nod. A perfect smile.

Kara doesn’t smile. And then — sharp as broken crystal — her voice cuts across the table.

“Is she really the best choice for this?”

The room stills, you feel every eye in the room.  You don’t look at her, but you hear everything in her tone — the ice, the bite, the implication. Your boss doesn’t flinch.

“She’s proven herself capable,” she replies evenly. “If you have concerns, Kara, bring them to me privately next time.”

Kara falters. Just a blink. But it’s enough. Her mouth sets into a tight line, and she looks away. You blink once, calmly, and wonder — for just a moment — since when she’s become so reckless, so willing to sabotage in public. But the thought doesn’t linger because your mind has already gone somewhere else.

Two weeks.

Two weeks in and out of shoots, tracking studio sessions, trailing the man you’ve spent every night trying to exorcise from your system. You know how he looks in soft morning light. You know how he sounds when he begs. You know how he tastes when he’s desperate.

And now you’re supposed to trail him with a notebook and call it journalism.

You swallow hard. Your hands don’t tremble. But you think — just for a second — that maybe this is where the real performance begins.

✦✦✦

It’s still early when you arrive at the studio — the kind of early where the lights are too cold, coffee tastes like necessity, and the air smells faintly of fresh paint and concrete dust. The Louis Vuitton team has already begun assembling the set, a curated dreamspace of vintage suitcases, faded wallpaper florals, and a stately brass bed that rests like a memory in the middle of the soundstage. Every element carefully chosen, every texture soft with nostalgia, as if the shoot itself is caught mid-sentence — a story without an ending, paused between what was meant and what became.

You move through the crew like silk — smooth, precise, unfazed — giving notes to lighting techs, nodding approval to stylists, adjusting a rack of garments that had been arranged slightly off-sequence. The shoot, your shoot, is titled “Une Lettre Jamais Envoyée” — A Letter Never Sent — and every frame is meant to ache. Garments are archival but lived-in, all sepia-toned cashmere and sharp tailoring softened by time. The concept is simple: the solitude of a man in a room filled with things he cannot throw away, haunted by someone who never answered.

The irony is not lost on you.

You check the call sheet once more, your voice steady as you walk through the logistics with the producer. Monochrome lighting for Look One. Diffused sun-flare for Look Three. Music low, intimate — you’d asked for Debussy, for that familiar aching piano to fill the air like perfume.

And when he arrives, you don’t need to see him to feel it. The room shifts.

The energy bends around him the way candlelight bends around the mouth of a bottle — quiet, warm, dangerous. Jungkook steps onto the set in full silence, a charcoal overcoat draped over his shoulders, his dark hair slightly tousled as if someone had already run fingers through it. His jaw is set, lips slightly swollen from either sleep or biting them raw, and his gaze scans the crew until it lands — unerringly, unrelentingly — on you.

But you don’t look up. You don’t flinch, don’t pause, don’t show the way your stomach flips once, hard, like a page turning before the story’s ready.

Instead, you speak to the photographer, a veteran French lensman who prefers film over digital and only calls you chérie, no matter the chaos on set. He adjusts the angle slightly, then lifts his hand mid-frame and calls out across the room, “Y/N, can we get him styled a bit looser in the sleeves? It’s too structured for the concept.”

You exhale once, slow. Professional. Composed. You cross the set and you touch him.

Just his wrist, where the cuff sits too stiff against the edge of his hand. You unbutton it slowly, rolling the fabric back with careful fingers, exposing the delicate veins on his forearm, and then you do the same to the other — ignoring the way his eyes never leave you, ignoring the way he breathes like it hurts to stand still.

You smooth down the line of the coat. His skin brushes yours. Your fingers burn. Still, you don’t speak. He does. A whisper, meant for you and no one else.

“I missed your hands.”

You don’t look up. Instead, you step back and signal to the photographer that the frame is ready.

The shoot begins.

Jungkook moves like poetry — like he knows what this campaign is about, like it was written about him. He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed, one hand tangled in the hem of a scarf that doesn’t belong to him, and he looks like someone who’s been left behind but still hopes the door might open. His expressions shift with each shutter click — longing, silence, disbelief, ache — and every single one of them feels too close to what you remember of him beneath your fingers in Italy.

You manage the room like nothing’s wrong.

You direct the crew, review the monitor feed, adjust the tone when someone gets too loud. When Look Three is rolled out — the white cotton button-down, slightly wrinkled, collar open like he just woke up heartbroken — you hand it to wardrobe yourself, knowing full well how it will sit against his skin. You do not speak to him again. Not even when the stylist forgets to tuck the tag and the photographer gestures for you to fix it.

You step forward, one last time. You reach for the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing his throat, and for a second he leans toward you — barely — as if the instinct is still there, like gravity. You ignore it. You tuck the tag. You fix the line. You walk away.

You finish the shoot an hour ahead of schedule.

You thank the team. Compliment the assistant stylist. Sign off on the film canisters and hand them over to the creative director. You do everything you’re meant to do, perfectly, professionally — and only when you sense him start to move behind you, feel the slightest shift in the air as if he’s about to reach for you, do you grab your bag and walk out, heels clicking loud and fast against the polished concrete floor, the sound of your escape echoing louder than his footsteps ever could.

You don’t look back. Because if you do — even once — you know this whole thing will burn.

✦✦✦

The next day of the schedule starts with a shutter click.

You arrive five minutes early, which is late by Vogue standards but early enough to look effortless. The studio is already lit in soft amber tones, flashes tested, light reflectors set in that subtle arch that frames the subject like an exhale. A quiet team of production assistants, stylists, and makeup artists hums around the space like bees in a glass hive. You take a seat near the edge of the shoot — clipboard in hand, pen capped, expression neutral — because today, you are not his past.

You’re just the editor and this is work.

Jungkook sits beneath the lights, draped in minimalist Givenchy, collar just low enough to hint at the ink curling across his collarbone. His skin is impossibly clear, styled to perfection, and you note — clinically, without emotion — that his eyes have dark circles under them that no amount of concealer can blur. Still, he poses like he was born under halogen, relaxed spine, parted lips, chin tilted, like he knows his angles and isn’t afraid to use them.

Across the room, Vogue Korea’s designated campaign photographer adjusts her lens and calls for frame five. You’re not on set — not yet — but you’re close enough to hear his voice when he answers a casual question from the stylist.

You’re also close enough to feel the air ripple when his eyes flick toward you between shots.

You’ve been in this industry too long to show weakness — not under studio lights, not with a photographer framing him like a god and a camera trained on every shadow.

Instead, you glance down at your notes. The interview outline is clean, with your handwriting pressed into the margins beside each question — an efficient, emotionless skeleton of conversation. You’re scheduled to ask about the album’s concept, the title RE:ENTRY, his intentions behind the tone, and any specific themes he’s chosen to highlight.

The theme is obvious. But you’ll ask anyway.

At exactly 11:30 a.m., the shoot breaks for rotation. You’re called over by the PR manager, and then by the Vogue photographer, who wants you on set to check visual tone and continuity.

You cross the studio slowly, adjusting your blouse at the wrist, pen still tucked neatly between two fingers, heels clicking softly against the concrete. When you step into the center of the lights, you feel it again — the way the room bends, the way his gaze wraps around you like silk that’s been soaked in heat.

You ignore it. The photographer points to a slight wrinkle in the shirt Jungkook is wearing. “Y/N, can you smooth that for me? It’s catching glare.”

You nod once. Step forward. Your fingers brush the hem of the shirt, then flatten over the fabric just above his waist. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But his breath shifts — you feel it bloom against your cheek, and your skin prickles with memory. Still, your hands are steady. Your eyes never meet his.

You adjust the fit, step back, nod to the camera.

Then you return to your seat. The rest of the day is efficient. You conduct the first half of the interview in a lounge corner of the studio, Vogue’s photographer snapping lifestyle-style candids in the background. Your questions are clean, practiced — too practiced. You ask about sonic inspiration, the shift from being part of a group to working solo, what scared him most about releasing something under just his name.

He answers well. Articulately. Formally. As if you aren’t the one person in the world who knows exactly what the track titled Notte Bianca is about.

You nod politely. Take notes. The shoot wraps at 5:00 p.m.

You thank the team, nod to the brand rep, shake hands with the makeup artist who complimented your ring. You don’t look at him again. Not until the very end, when you sense — not hear, not see, sense — his movement behind you. A reach. A step too close. Fingers about to graze your wrist.

You turn your head sharply — not enough to meet his eyes, just enough to remind him that you saw.

And then you leave, your car door shuts with the cleanest click you’ve ever heard.

✦✦✦

The car ride to Jungkook’s studio is unnervingly quiet — no music, no notifications, just the rhythmic tap of your nails against the Vogue press badge clipped discreetly inside your tote. Outside the window, Seoul moves like water — all steel and winter glass, a city too fast to hold your nerves.

When the taxi pulls up, you almost miss it.

The recording studio doesn’t flaunt its purpose. It’s hidden behind a row of designer cafés and flower boutiques in Hannam-dong, masked in matte black brick, with only a brushed steel door and keypad hinting at what it guards. There’s no sign. No name. Just silence. Which, you realize the moment you step out into the crisp air, is entirely the point.

You let yourself in with the temporary guest pass his team sent the day before, and the door opens on a different world — warmth, hush, acoustics tuned to velvet. The air is low-lit and humming with equipment, the scent of coffee and ozone hanging above a polished concrete floor. On one side, a glass-walled booth with layered sound panels and a hanging condenser mic; on the other, a leather couch and a wall of analog gear that looks far too expensive to touch.

You recognize it instantly as a space meant for vulnerability — but guarded like a vault.

Jungkook’s voice reaches you before you see him. “Hey.”

You turn, and there he is — already seated near the mixing console, one leg folded beneath him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fingers idly toying with a capless pen. He looks… quieter here. Not styled. Not sculpted for press. Just him.

You nod, polite. Controlled. “Hi.”

And then — like before — you don’t sit right away. You set your bag down carefully, unfold your notes, pull out the recorder, and begin the slow work of building a wall between the memory of his mouth on your body and the man now waiting to be interviewed.

“Thanks for making time for this,” you add, walking to the velvet chair opposite him.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Thanks for not avoiding me anymore.”

You ignore that. You press record.

“This is for the January cover feature,” you say, your voice even, practiced. “It’s a longform editorial piece to accompany your solo debut. I’d like to begin with the album title. RE:ENTRY. Why that name?”

He shifts in his seat, looking toward the floor before answering.

“I liked the idea of burning through the atmosphere,” he says. “Coming back into something that used to feel like home, but being changed by the fall. Everything’s faster now. Hotter. You survive it… or you don’t.”

You nod. Your pen glides across the paper.

“And the sound?” you ask. “You move between genres — synth, stripped-down ballads, late-night R&B. What ties them together?”

He tilts his head. “They’re all from the same orbit.”

You look up at him.

He adds, “Even when I was making Private Room, I was still haunted by Encore. I wanted sex and silence in the same breath. I wanted the story to feel like it was begging for one more night.”

You don’t blink. “So Encore is the centerpiece track?”

“I guess,” he shrugs, and smiles like it costs him something. “It’s the one that hurts the most.”

You cross your legs. "And Don’t Look Back (You Did)?"

“Regret. Ego. Silence.” He meets your gaze. “You’d know.”

Your pen stills — for just a second — but you move on. “And Her Ghost Wears Chanel?”

He breathes out, voice lower now. “That’s about waking up next to people who still aren’t her.”

You don’t flinch. You just write the line down, word for word, inked sharp and clinical across the page.

There’s a beat of quiet. You can feel the shift — the closeness, the weight of everything unsaid leaning into the pause.

You redirect. “Let’s talk about New Year’s Exit,” you say, voice crisp again. “It opens the album.”

He nods. “It’s about starting the year without something you thought would be permanent.”

“Someone.”

He doesn’t deny it. You lower your pen, pause the recorder gently. “Would you be willing to let me hear a track?”

He’s already moving. He rises from the chair — graceful, relaxed, more fluid than you remember — and walks toward the mixing board. The entire room shifts with him, like gravity, like muscle memory, and when he turns back to you, the lights catch his cheekbones in a way that makes your breath stutter in your chest.

He presses one key. And then Notte Bianca begins.

The track opens with the soft pull of fingers over a guitar string — warm, breathy, deliberate — and you feel it before you register the sound, something low in your spine tightening like recognition. The room doesn’t change, not visibly, but it feels different now, like every shadow is suddenly looking at you, like the light itself has gone still just to listen.

You remain seated, back straight, pen still in hand even though you haven’t written a word since he pressed play. Your eyes flick toward the console screen where the waveform glows and moves, but it’s his voice that finds you first — low, layered, textured with static and restraint, the way he always used to sing when he wanted to break your heart quietly.

"Lake light on your thighs / Moon in your throat / My name under your breath like it burned."

You don’t move.

"You kissed me like the night was rented / Like it wouldn’t last the drive home."

He’s not watching the screen. He’s watching you.

You feel it — not just in the air, but under your skin, like heat rising too fast. The lyrics pour out in waves, brushed with the same decadence that coated the marble floors of that Italian hotel, the same pulse that dragged you toward him under that chandelier, the same unbearable ache of wanting him and hating him in the same breath.

You swallow once. Your pen is trembling now.

"You said nothing when you left / But your lipstick stayed in my lungs."

The last chord hangs for too long. And then silence.

You lift your eyes, slowly, knowing that if you meet his gaze for more than a second, your composure will unravel like thread under fire.

Jungkook doesn’t speak immediately. He lets the quiet linger between you like a question you haven’t earned the right to ask.

When he finally does speak, his voice is soft — not teasing, not smug — just quietly devastating.

“That one came out fast.”

You blink once, slow.

“It sounds…” You reach for a word, but none of them feel professional enough. “It sounds… expensive.”

He smiles faintly, almost sadly. “It was.”

There’s a silence again — not awkward, just heavy.

You flip the page in your notebook with a hand that pretends not to shake. “Is it about someone specific?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He leans back, fingers threading behind his neck, body angled like a challenge, like he’s trying to look relaxed while waiting to see if you’ll flinch first.

“Only one person would recognize it,” he says finally.

You don’t answer.Instead, you click your pen closed and lower your voice, just enough to remind yourself that you're still in control.

“Any other tracks you’d like to walk me through today?”

He tilts his head — a little amused, a little bitter.

“I thought this was just a feature article,” he says. “Not a postmortem.”

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “They’re the same thing, sometimes.”

He stands and the room bends with him — subtly, but you feel it, like the soundproofing is no longer between the walls but between your ribs.

“I want to show you something,” he says. You don’t respond, but you follow him. 

The glass door to the recording booth is already cracked open, a soft glow pulsing from the mic’s standby light. He gestures you in, lets you step past him first, and when the door clicks shut behind you, the quiet becomes absolute — not silence, but a vacuum, the kind of hush you feel in your teeth.

He doesn’t move to the mic, standing behind you instead. Too close.

You can see your reflection in the glossy black of the sound panel in front of you, and the moment his voice drops — low and velvet — near the shell of your ear, you feel your pulse skitter hard behind your ribs.

“You didn’t ask about Private Room,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes while your voice barely works. “I didn’t think I needed to.”

He leans in from behind, breath warming your neck, his mouth not touching but close enough that your skin knows what he wants.

“Maybe you should’ve.”

You don’t know who moves first.

It could be you shifting your hips, or him closing the distance between his mouth and your neck. But the second he kisses you again, everything unravels. The studio is quiet — dangerously so — the only sound the low hum of the condenser mic and the soft hiss of your breathing when his lips skim your skin again, lower this time, finding that place beneath your ear that always made your knees tilt inward.

You stand there, frozen and burning, arms hanging useless at your sides while his hands move with a kind of hesitant worship — first hovering at your waist, then settling at the slope of your hips. Your skirt is short. You wore it because it was sharp. Professional. Structured. Not so it would make it easier for him to find your skin beneath it. But now, when his thumbs dip under the fabric and he groans softly against your neck, you know you made a mistake thinking you could stay in control of this.

You reach for him behind you, fingers closing around his wrist, guiding it higher — first to your ribs, then up, until his palm cups your breast through the thin fabric of your top. He breathes your name into your hair, barely a sound. You don’t respond.

You push backward, just enough to feel the line of him — hard, warm, pressed against the curve of your ass through too many layers. The contact sends a bolt of heat through your core, sharp and sweet and horrible.

He growls then, low and ragged, and spins you gently, urgently, until your back is against the padded wall. His gaze is molten, his lashes dark with restraint. One hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your lip.

“I don’t have a condom,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours, breath fanning hot across your mouth.

Your eyes stay on his, steady. “I’m clean. On the pill.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m clean too.”

You tilt your head, lips almost touching now. “Then fuck me. Raw.”

He kisses you — not sweetly, not gently — and it knocks the breath out of you. The kiss is wet, open-mouthed, all tongue and memory. His hands yank your top up and over your chest, dragging it to your collarbones while he palms your breasts, rough and aching, mouth breaking from yours only to attach to your neck, your jaw, the space just above your collar.

His fingers tug your skirt higher and he drags your underwear down in one motion, breath catching when he finds you soaked.

“You wanted this,” he mutters, almost angry.

“You left me,” you snap.

And still — your legs part for him. He strokes you once, twice, and you arch into the wall with a gasp. He leans in, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re hard,” you whisper back.

He groans — deep, feral — and with one hand gripping your hip, he aligns himself and pushes in, slow and thick, stretching you open in a way that makes your jaw go slack.

The first thrust is unbearable. The second nearly makes your knees give.

It’s different — raw — in every sense. Hotter. Messier. You feel every inch of him, no barrier between you, no distance, no excuse. He presses you into the wall and begins to move, hips rolling deep, his breath catching against your neck with each thrust. One hand holds your thigh up, the other slides around your stomach, anchoring you to him as he rocks into you harder, deeper.

“You feel—fuck—you feel like sin,” he breathes, and the sound of it makes your head fall back.

You clench around him and whimper something that sounds like his name. His grip tightens.

“You want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin.

“No,” you breathe, eyes fluttering. “Don’t.”

He fucks you like a memory he refuses to let fade — slow and deep, then fast and filthy, each thrust wet and loud and obscene in the echo of the booth. You’re both making sounds now, breathless and unfiltered. His hand slips between your legs, fingers rubbing where you’re swollen, and when you cry out, he curses under his breath.

“Don’t be quiet,” he groans. “Let me hear you.”

You come fast — it crashes into you like the snap of a wave, your body going taut, your thighs trembling as your orgasm rips through you, pulsing around him.

He barely holds it together. The rhythm stutters, grows erratic. He grunts something low against your shoulder, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and full, buried as deep as he can go. Your walls flutter around him, milking every drop, and he stays inside for a moment — just breathing, just holding.

Then, wordlessly, he pulls you off the wall. He lowers you into his lap as he sinks into the studio chair, still sheathed inside you, still hard, still not done.

You let your weight settle onto him, and for a moment, you both just breathe — foreheads brushing, skin hot and trembling, his hands skating up the back of your thighs with reverence that feels dangerous. You grind once, slow, a test — and he exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs.

You plant your hands on his chest, lift your hips, and begin to ride him — deliberately slow at first, dragging your wetness along every ridge of him, letting the stretch burn again just because you want it to. Your head falls back with a moan that echoes off the soundboard. He watches you like he’s in a trance, jaw slack, hands gripping the curve of your waist to steady you as you find rhythm again.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he groans, voice rough, low. “On me. All mine.”

You don’t answer — you just roll your hips harder, faster, chasing friction and heat.

He growls, leans forward, and his hands cup your ass, fingers digging into the flesh as he guides you faster, helping you ride him with bruising force now. Your moans turn breathless, pitched higher, your thighs shaking from effort and overstimulation, and he leans in to suck a mark beneath your collarbone, murmuring filth against your skin as he does.

“Fuck, baby… You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Do it.”

He thrusts up once, twice — hard — and then holds you still as he comes, buried deep, heat spilling into you, a low growl rasping out of his throat. You shudder once more with him, clenching around every pulse of him, drunk on the stretch, the fullness, the rawness of it.

You collapse onto his chest again, trembling.

He breathes against your hair. “Round two?”

You smile. Slow. Lazy. Still wrapped around him. “Not tonight.”

You pull back, fingertips smoothing the line of his jaw. You press one soft kiss to his lips — all heat and no promise — and when you stand, he groans at the loss of you.

You smooth your skirt down, roll your top back into place, gather your pen from the floor like it matters.

Then you look at him over your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you say, voice satin-sweet, already turning toward the door. “That was a very, very good fuck.”

[you can read the article of OC and Jungkook’s album tracklist here]

✦✦✦

The morning stretches itself across the Vogue Korea editorial floor in long, ivory ribbons of winter light, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows with theatrical precision, as if the sun itself is rehearsing a cue for your moment. The glass table gleams beneath your fingertips. Your laptop screen reflects back your masterpiece — the completed feature article for the January issue, centered around Jungkook’s solo debut, your words threading through each song like the fine gold stitching of a couture hem.

You’ve read it a dozen times this morning alone. Still, it holds. Still, it sings.

Each paragraph cuts clean. Every pull quote lands like a lyric that never needed melody. You’ve captured RE:ENTRY the way it was meant to be seen — not just an album, but a confession dressed in synth and sweat and late-night regret. It is, without a trace of false humility, the best work you’ve ever done. And the issue? Your issue. The layout. The vision. The headline structure. The branded social rollout. All of it — yours.

The room is full — editorial, design, digital, partnerships — everyone seated around the long conference table, coffee cups half-full, coats draped over the backs of chairs, winter breath still lingering in some of their voices. You finish your presentation with a confident click, closing the laptop and lifting your chin slightly as you glance toward your boss.

For a beat, there’s silence. And then it starts — a ripple of soft applause that swells into something louder, more genuine, until even the department heads are nodding to each other in agreement. Compliments bloom across the room like perfume. Someone says the piece reads like a movie. Someone else calls it transcendent. Even Hyerin catches your eye from across the table, mouthing a quiet “you killed it.”

Then, from the head of the table, a slow, deliberate nod.

Seo In-kyung, the Editor-in-Chief herself — rarely warm, never effusive — folds her manicured hands atop her tablet, tilts her head slightly, and lets the words fall in that sharp, measured tone she reserves for verdicts and final cuts.

“I don’t say this lightly,” she begins, her voice cool and commanding, “but your feature has set the tone for this issue in a way I haven’t seen in years. It’s layered. It’s intimate. And most importantly, it’s Vogue. I can already feel the ripple effect.”

You exhale slowly, the praise sliding over your skin like sunlight through silk, warm and grounding and almost enough to distract you from the truth that’s been haunting you since the night at the studio: that no matter how clean your layout, how polished your sentences, how composed your posture — you let him in again. And you’ve been ignoring every message since.

But for now, you’re untouchable. Or at least, you were until Kara stands.

The sound of her palms meeting each other breaks through the air with a peculiar cadence — a slow, sarcastic clap, each strike louder than the one before. The entire room shifts toward her in confusion, and when she smiles, it’s the kind of curve that doesn’t reach her eyes, the kind of expression that warns before it wounds.

In-kyung’s voice tightens like a drawn thread. “Kara. Sit.”

But she doesn’t. Instead, she adjusts the fall of her designer blouse, takes a step forward, and clears her throat delicately — the kind of theatrical gesture that lets everyone know she’s about to make the moment about herself.

“Maybe,” Kara begins, her voice sugar-laced and perfectly pitched, “if the rest of us were fucking with the people we were interviewing, we could all produce work like that.”

For a moment, you don’t breathe. No one does. The room plunges into silence so deep it hums, and you swear you hear the central heating system kick on just to fill the space with something. Across the table, Hyerin’s eyes widen. One of the junior editors drops their pen. Someone mutters what the fuck under their breath, barely audible.

And you? You sit motionless. Perfect. Stunned. Your spine straight, your limbs gone cold.

Your name is not said. But it doesn’t have to be. In-kyung straightens, rising from her seat like the ghost of judgment in ivory cashmere,“Kara. My office. Now.”

Kara offers a slow, graceful blink, like a model turning for her close-up, and walks toward the exit with a posture that suggests not shame, but triumph. You follow, legs heavy and heart racing, still unsure how reality is moving beneath you when the ground feels like it should be giving way.

Inside the office, the door clicks shut with a finality that feels fatal. You don’t sit. Kara does.

She opens the folder in her hands and begins sliding photos across In-kyung’s desk with infuriating precision — one after another, each print more invasive than the last. There’s a shot of Jungkook’s hand on your back outside the gala limo. Another of him stepping into your taxi the following morning. A third from years ago, the two of you on the sidewalk in Mapo, your fingers linked, your faces flushed with the kind of joy only twenty-year-olds and fools believe is permanent.

You stare in disbelief, pulse hammering behind your ribs.

“What the hell is this?” your voice cracks. “Were you following me?”

Kara doesn’t even look up. She keeps arranging the photos like artifacts.

“No need,” she says, light as air. “Your fuckboy is a walking goldmine of sasaeng activity. I just reached out to a few desperate little fan accounts. They practically threw this at me.”

Something in you shatters.

“Are you hearing yourself?” you hiss, turning to In-kyung with disbelief. “She bought photos from stalkers. This isn’t journalism. It’s harassment. Jungkook has no privacy and you’re—”

But In-kyung doesn’t raise her hand. She doesn’t shout and doesn’t look at the photos a second time.

She simply closes the folder in one deliberate motion, turns her eyes to yours — steady, unreadable, perfectly composed — and delivers her verdict with the same calmness she uses to kill stories at the pitch table.

“You’re fired.”

You feel the words before you hear them, the coldness of them landing first in your stomach and then rising like bile to your throat. You blink, stunned, trying to make sense of what you’ve just been told.

“What?”

Her tone doesn’t change. “The article will be reassigned,” she says. “The cover credit will follow. You’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

You can’t move. “This is—this is insane,” you whisper. “You’re rewarding her for a smear campaign built on sasaeng surveillance—”

You want to speak — to scream, to argue, to defend yourself with everything you’ve built — but your mouth doesn’t open. Kara sits still, smug and silent, as if she’s already lit the match and is simply watching the room burn.

“You made a choice,” In-kyung cuts you off, voice quiet, cold. “To violate our professional code. To sleep with a client. You gambled your credibility. And you lost.”

Kara exhales like a cat stretching in the sun. “Have a nice life, sweetheart.”

You look to In-kyung again, searching for anything — reason, mercy, even disgust.

But she’s already turning back to her computer. You are no longer something she needs to look at.

“Please escort yourself out,” she says without lifting her gaze.

And just like that, you are erased.

✦✦✦

The office is quiet now — too quiet — the way a room sounds after applause ends and everyone forgets to look back. You sit alone in the corner cubicle that used to buzz with purpose, dragging your Vogue-embossed storage box closer with one hand, the other carefully wrapping cords, tucking notebooks, flattening printed drafts that once mattered more than breath itself. Your coffee mug — the one from Paris Fashion Week with the chipped handle and a faint lipstick stain that never came off — goes in last.

You don’t cry. Not because you’re strong. But because there is something so bitter, so insulting about the way it ended that it leaves no room for tears, only a scalding sort of fury that simmers behind your ribs like boiling perfume.

You don’t look at Kara’s desk. You don’t even let your gaze hover near it.

You think about the years it took to get here — from intern to editor, the nights you stayed late under flickering lights, rewriting celebrity copy while Kara slipped out early for rooftop events she didn’t earn. You think about the trust you built, the reputation for polish and precision, the way your boss once said you were the kind of woman who made Vogue feel like Vogue again. And now? One grainy photo from a sasaeng with a zoom lens and a grudge, and it’s over.

Your jaw clenches. When you close the lid on the box, the snap of it feels ceremonial.

Footsteps approach, soft-soled and hesitant. You don’t look up until Hyerin’s voice breaks the hum of your rage.

“They’ll reconsider. I know they will. You just need to wait it out.”

You meet her eyes — kind, worried, sincere — and something in you softens for a breath. But only a breath.

“I don’t want them to,” you say, your tone low, flat, final. “If this is what they stand for — if this is what they protect — then I don’t want to belong to it.”

Hyerin looks stricken. “Y/N…”

But you’re already standing, lifting the box with both arms. It’s heavier than it should be. Or maybe you’re just exhausted.

“I didn’t sleep with him for a cover,” you add, pausing at the edge of your cubicle. “But even if I had — I’d still have more integrity than someone buying evidence from stalkers. And they chose her over me. That’s all I need to know.”

✦✦✦

The taxi ride home is silent. Not a single notification or a single tear.

But when you step inside your apartment, place the box carefully on the floor, and shut the door behind you — it breaks.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a sharp inhale, a trembling lip, and the way your shoulders fold forward like they’re finally allowed to collapse. You don’t scream. You don’t sob. But your hands shake when you reach for your phone, and your heart races the moment his name lights up the screen.

You press call. It rings once, then twice.

“Y/N?” His voice is thick with disbelief, like he never actually expected to hear from you again. “Wait—are you okay?”

You don’t answer him right away.

“Do you know,” you begin, voice steady despite everything, “how many sasaengs follow you?”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence that stretches too long.

“…Yes,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You swallow. “Do you know they’re selling photos of you?”

The panic in his voice is instant, sharp as a blade. “What? What the fuck—why are you asking? Did they follow you? Did they send you something? Y/N, what did they—”

“They didn’t come to me,” you interrupt softly. “They went to someone else. Someone who used it to destroy everything I worked for.”

Another silence. And then, his voice drops — low, furious, gutted. “Tell me who.”

You laugh — not out of humor, but out of something hollow and tired and cruel. “Does it matter? It’s done. I’m fired.”

“What?”

“I lost everything,” you say, softer now, like you’re just realizing it yourself. “The article. The credit. The cover. All of it.”

He curses under his breath. You can hear him pacing, hear the frustration laced into every inhale. “They can’t fucking do that. You worked for years—"

“I don’t care,” you lie.

“Yes, you do.”

You sit on the floor, legs crossed beneath you, staring at the wall like it might offer you something. “I care about writing. I care about fashion. But I don’t care about a company that protects stalkers and punishes women for who they love.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his voice shifts — softer, more cautious.

“I know you still love Vogue Korea like that.”

You hesitate.

“I don’t love them,” you say finally. “I love the work. I always did.”

There’s a pause. Then a breath.

“You know the October cover? The BTS one?”

You blink. “What about it?”

“It was my idea.”

You frown. “What?”

He exhales, like he’s been waiting to admit this. “I found out you were working there. I pitched the cover, and insisted on Vogue Korea. I told them I wanted it — told the team I’d only do the solo campaign if they agreed. I didn’t know how else to get to you.”

“You…” your voice falters. “You did all that just to see me again?”

“Yes.”

The confession hangs between you, delicate and irreversible.

“And now they’re stealing your work from you — the very thing I pitched because I wanted you back in my world. I’m not letting them get away with that.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you whisper, “I hate that you still make me feel things.”

“I hope,” he replies, voice breaking just slightly, “you hate it a little less tomorrow.”

✦✦✦

The glass walls of the Vogue Korea conference room still gleam with that same sterile gloss — the scent of designer leather chairs, faint citrus from someone's perfume, and the cold metallic hum of power thickening the air. You shouldn’t be here. You know that. And yet, you sit at the long oval table, fingers clasped in your lap, spine straight, head high — not for them, not anymore, but for yourself.

You didn’t ask to come back. You wouldn’t have. Not after how they discarded you with such dispassion, like the work you bled for had never stained their brand bright enough to matter. But then the invitation had come. Not from Seo In-kyung. Not from the Vogue board. It came from HYBE, with your name printed in clean, exacting type, and a tone that wasn’t a request — it was a summons.

The door opens behind you.

Seo In-kyung enters first, all sharp angles and polished silk, her expression unreadable except for the faint crease between her brows — as if being made to explain herself is beneath her title. Kara walks in just a step behind, her expression a masterpiece of faux neutrality, lips pressed together so tightly that they’re nearly colorless. She sits without greeting you, without a glance. You return the favor.

And then he enters.

Jungkook was dressed in black head-to-toe — blazer open, shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. His jaw is locked, his posture coiled and still, and there is something in his gaze that makes the whole room stiffen as he steps inside alongside his manager. You don’t flinch. You meet his eyes. And this time, you don’t look away.

Because if they fired you for loving him, then let them see it. He sits directly across from you, and the silence lingers just long enough to curdle. His voice is calm when it finally comes, but barely.

“I’ll make this simple,” Jungkook says, his eyes never leaving In-kyung. “I’m no longer consenting to my January solo cover if the credit for the article is assigned to the wrong person.”

A pause. In-kyung blinks once. “The credit is a formality,” she begins smoothly, tilting her head ever so slightly toward you, “though of course I understand there’s a... personal stake here.”

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift — but the temperature in the room does.

“No,” he says, tone even sharper now. “It’s not personal. It’s ethical. I don’t condone plagiarism. Or fraud.”

His manager clears his throat beside him, carefully composed. “We have emails, timestamps, raw drafts, BTS’s own recording sessions — all traced directly to Y/N’s involvement. Any change to her authorship would not only be inaccurate — it would be actionable.”

Kara shifts in her seat, the first sign of discomfort flashing in her eyes.

But Jungkook isn’t finished. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, and when he speaks again, the edge in his voice is no longer subtle.

“And even beyond the article,” he says, “I still don’t understand how she was fired. Not reprimanded. Not reassigned. Fired. And replaced with someone who sourced photos from fucking sasaengs.”

Kara’s voice shoots up before anyone else can respond.

“I didn’t take the photos myself,” she snaps, finally cracking through her composure. “I bought them. They were already out there. I didn’t create the scandal—”

“You weaponized it,” Jungkook cuts in, tone now dark and lethal. “You used stalker photos to humiliate a colleague in a professional setting. You endangered my privacy. Her safety. And you dragged a private relationship into a boardroom as ammunition. You think that’s not disgusting?”

His manager steps in before Kara can reply, voice cool, detached, lethal in its corporate precision.

“The fact remains that these images, regardless of origin, were disseminated within an official Vogue Korea meeting — and used to provoke professional consequences. From our legal standpoint, that constitutes a violation of privacy law and creates grounds for a breach-of-contract dispute. Unless remedied.”

In-kyung’s expression tightens. She smooths her skirt, then folds her hands, composed but calculating.

“We’ll reinstate the credit,” she says at last. “The article will be published under Y/N’s name as originally planned. And the cover will remain with Mr. Jeon.”

There’s a flicker of triumph in the air — but it doesn’t reach you.

Because you already know what you’re about to say. You speak before anyone else can.

“I’m not coming back.”

Jungkook turns to you so sharply it’s like someone tugged a thread from the center of the table.

In-kyung blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t return to Vogue Korea,” you repeat, voice steady, gaze pinned to your former boss. “You may put my name on that article — because I wrote it — but I will not work for a publication that values power and optics over people. That protects stalkers. That dismisses women for the crime of loving someone inconvenient.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Jungkook shifts again, slowly this time, turning his head toward In-kyung with that same quiet finality that has sold out stadiums.

“I want Kara fired,” he says, voice so calm it almost feels kind. “And I want that request noted in the official record. From the artist. Personally.”

You don’t look at Kara. You don’t need to.

Because this time, when you walk out of that office, the door doesn’t slam behind you.

It closes — soft, final, clean. The hallway feels brighter on the way out.

Jungkook catches up to you at the elevator, a half-step behind, and when he speaks, it’s softer now — less fire, more ache.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “Not for me.”

You turn to him with a bitter smile. “I didn’t. I did it for me.”

He nods once, and the elevator dings open. You both step inside.

“I owe you,” you say after a moment, voice low. “You didn’t have to show up like that.”

“I’ll always show up for you,” he replies, and for once, it sounds like a vow.

Silence settles again — warm, heavy — until he glances at you and adds, “Do you want a ride?”

You hesitate but nod. And this time, when you get into the car with him, it doesn’t feel like surrender.

It feels like agency.

✦✦✦

The car is silent for a while, the kind of silence that doesn’t ache — not exactly — but hums with something tentative and unspeakable, something that lives between the past and the possibility. Outside the tinted windows, Seoul glows with its usual contradiction — steel and chaos dressed in elegance, neon halos wrapped around glass buildings, traffic humming like a restless symphony beneath them.

You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap, your body angled toward the window, your thoughts stretched thin between relief and exhaustion. And then you hear him breathe in like he’s been holding it for too long.

“How are you?” he asks.

You glance at him, not expecting the question to land so gently.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice calm and even. “I’ve saved up enough to hold myself through a few months. And I have an idea. A project, maybe.”

He turns slightly, enough for you to see his profile against the soft glow of the passing streetlights.

“What kind of project?”

You pause, then let it slip — not with rehearsed polish, not as a pitch, but as something tender you’ve been nursing in the back of your mind.

“A digital magazine,” you say. “Something fresh. Modern. Built around voices that actually have something to say. Not just trends, but meaning. I want to tell stories again — without being filtered through nepotism and ivory towers.”

His mouth parts like he’s about to interrupt, to offer something, but you continue before he can find the words.

“And I’ll be fine,” you say. “I always am. I’ve got this.”

He nods, slowly, his jaw tightening just slightly.

“I could help,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, not pushy — more like a hand hesitantly extended in the dark. “If you need funding. Or reach. Or anything.”

You smile, soft and kind.

“I know. But it won’t be necessary.”

His brows twitch. “You sure?”

You turn your head toward him then, really look at him. “I got everything I ever had on my own. I want this to be mine, too.”

It’s not rejection, not really — but it’s a boundary. One spoken with grace, but firm enough to bruise. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. He only nods again, his lips parting for a breath that he never quite exhales, eyes now fixed on the blurred city rushing past.

He doesn’t say it, but you feel it anyway — the desperate, quiet ache of a man trying to find any way to stay in your orbit, even if all the lines have been drawn in stone.

By the time the car pulls up to your apartment complex, the tension has shifted. It’s not heavy anymore. It’s just there — coiled in the silence, lingering in the static between your fingers.

Jungkook reaches for the door handle, but stops when you speak again.

“You know,” you murmur, eyes sliding toward him, tone feather-light, “you could come up for a minute.”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, letting the smallest smirk tug at your lips. “Your blazer is still at my place. I figured you might want it back.”

He blinks once, a beat of disbelief, then — a smile. Real. Wide. Bright in a way that makes him look younger, almost like the boy you used to know before the world taught him how to disappear.

“Right,” he says. “The blazer.”

And just like that, he follows you up the stairs.

The door swings open with a soft click, and the warmth of your apartment spills into the hallway — soft lamplight, the faint scent of fresh flowers, and something faintly sweet clinging to the air like vanilla and ink. Jungkook follows you in, quiet behind you, his steps slowing as he takes in the space — small, yes, but so meticulously curated that it feels like stepping into the pages of a life built by hand.

Your bookshelves are stacked not just with titles, but with memories — worn copies of fashion memoirs, old literary paperbacks with creased spines, a row of thick archival issues of Vogue from various countries, and a ceramic pen holder shaped like a Chanel No. 5 bottle. Your desk is minimal, sleek, but lived-in: a half-used candle, a leather-bound planner with sticky notes peeking out, a cup of cooling tea beside your laptop. On the wall just above it, perfectly framed and hung in a gold-trimmed black mount, is the October issue of Vogue Korea.

His cover. Your article.

You watch him approach it, his eyes scanning the glossy finish, the sharp serif headline, the tension frozen forever in that singular photo you both helped bring to life. He doesn’t speak, not right away. His throat works around the words he doesn’t say, and you leave him there, letting him take in the quiet proof that even now, even after everything, he still lives here — in your space, in your timeline, pressed between your fingerprints and your dreams.

“I didn’t know you kept it,” he says finally, voice low.

You smile gently, already walking into the small open kitchen. “Well, I wrote it,” you reply, pulling down two glasses. “It was mine before it was anyone else’s.”

He turns at that, and the look on his face is almost boyish — reverent, maybe. Like he’s seeing you again for the first time, not through a lens of guilt or memory, but through the stillness of now.

You return with the wine and a sly glint in your eye, nudging his elbow as you pass. “Don’t look so serious. We’re not here to mourn.”

He lifts a brow. “No?”

You hand him a glass and settle onto the plush, soft-blanketed couch that dominates your small living room, the cushions already sunken from nights spent editing drafts and reading fashion week recaps. You tuck your legs beneath you and raise your glass in a mock-toast.

“We’re here to celebrate. My freedom. My future. Today was a win.”

He clinks your glass gently, eyes never leaving yours. “To your freedom,” he murmurs.

The first few sips pass easily, the taste rich and deep. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker — something French and sultry, the kind of thing you play when you're pretending not to romanticize solitude. The conversation flows without effort, meandering through memories, playful jabs, late-night ramen disasters from your early twenties, the ridiculous way he used to sneak into your dorm through the laundry exit, how you once nearly got caught at a public library and laughed for fifteen minutes straight after.

He’s different now. Older, yes — carved sharper, his fame molded into his posture — but when he laughs like that, head tilted back, lashes low, he feels like the boy you never really stopped loving. Not completely.

And maybe he never stopped loving you either.

When the wine bottle is nearly empty and your legs are stretched lazily across his lap, the mood shifts. Not jarringly — no crash of thunder, no sudden silence — but something gentler, something that folds over the room like velvet being pulled across bare skin.

He brushes a piece of hair from your cheek, his fingers staying there, calloused and warm against your skin. His thumb drags softly along your jaw, then rests at the corner of your mouth as if memorizing the shape of your silence.

“You deserve the best things in this world,” he says, voice tender, achingly sincere. “And I wish I never disappointed you the way I did.”

You look at him, eyes wide and open, the sting in your chest blooming and soft all at once.

“I don’t want you to carry that forever,” you whisper. “We’ve both made peace with the wreckage. I want us to move forward — not with guilt. With hope.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You really believe we can?”

You nod, slowly, deliberately. “I believe in starting again. And I believe in us, if we choose it.”

That’s when he leans in.

There is no sudden urgency, no hunger to consume — only the slow, careful gravity of two people finding home in each other’s mouths. His lips meet yours like a secret finally spoken aloud. The kiss is slow and reverent, a study in restraint, his hand still on your face, the other slipping to your waist as if asking permission he already knows you’ll grant.

You move together like something rediscovered — nothing desperate, nothing rushed. When he lifts you into his lap, you don’t hesitate. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his hands glide beneath your shirt, and every inch of contact feels like returning to a language your bodies never forgot.

You murmur his name. He breathes yours against your neck.

“I love you,” he says, not as a plea, not as a promise — just truth.

You whisper it back, slow and trembling, as you guide his shirt off, as he lifts you in his arms and carries you toward your bedroom. 

The door to your bedroom creaks open as he carries you inside, the backs of his fingers still stroking your waist beneath your blouse, as though he can’t bear to stop touching you even for a second. The room is small but bathed in warmth — draped in deep tones and the faintest scent of your perfume that lives in the pillows and hangs from the edges of the curtain. He sets you down at the foot of the bed as if you’re something precious, something fragile and sacred, but the look in his eyes tells you he also wants to ruin you.

You pull your top over your head, slow, deliberate, leaving yourself in nothing but a bralette and that little skirt you forgot you were still wearing. He watches you with parted lips, chest rising, gaze molten as he reaches to kiss you again — slower this time, deeper, his tongue licking softly into your mouth while his hands slide over your thighs.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he breathes, voice hoarse, kissing your collarbone, your shoulder, his mouth tracing the line of your bra. “Do you know what it’s been like? Wanting you like this, every night, for years?”

Your fingers are already tugging his shirt out of his pants, unfastening buttons one by one, letting your nails graze the inked skin of his chest.

“I want you,” you murmur, breath catching as he kisses just beneath your breast. “All of you.”

He lowers you onto the bed with maddening control — pressing kisses along your ribs, your stomach, as his hands tug your skirt down your legs. You feel like fire under his touch. You arch into him, gasping when his mouth finds your inner thigh. His breath is warm, heavy, teasing, but he takes his time. He licks you through your panties first, a slow press of his tongue that has you already clenching around nothing, already aching for more.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “So fucking sweet.”

When he finally pulls your panties to the side and buries his face between your thighs, you forget every coherent thought. His tongue is slow and deliberate — soft licks at first, then deeper, firmer, as he moans against your skin like he’s starving for it. One of his arms hooks around your thigh to keep you still while his other hand trails up your body, palming your breast through your bra, rubbing his thumb over the peak.

You whimper, fingers tangled in his hair. “Jungkook…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, licking up and down your folds. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good again.”

And then his tongue circles your clit — slow at first, then faster, as he sucks you into his mouth and keeps your hips pressed down. You can’t stop the moans, the way your back arches, the way your thighs tremble under his grip.

You fall apart like that, shattering beneath his tongue, crying out his name as your orgasm crashes over you. But he doesn’t stop — not even when you twitch and squirm and plead. He licks you through it, groaning against you like he needs it, until you’re gasping, breathless.

When he finally comes up for air, lips wet and eyes dark, you’re already reaching for him — unbuttoning his pants, tugging them down with a quiet desperation.

“Please,” you breathe. “I need you inside me.”

He curses under his breath, leans over to grab a condom — but you stop him.

“I’m still clean,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “I’m still on the pill. And you?”

His eyes lock with yours — hot and heavy and searching. “Yeah. I’m clean.”

You nod once. “Then fuck me raw.”

That’s when something in him snaps.

He strips down in seconds — shirt, boxers, everything — and when you see him, thick and flushed and already leaking, your mouth waters. You reach for him, running your palm down his length, watching the way his eyes flutter shut.

But he grabs your wrist.

“No teasing,” he growls. “Not this time.”

Then he’s on top of you — dragging your panties down the rest of the way, lifting your leg around his waist as he lines himself up and pushes inside.

You both gasp. The stretch is slow, hot, overwhelming. You cling to him, nails raking down his back, his name spilling from your lips as he rocks into you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice shaking. “You’re so tight. So warm. I missed this. I missed you.”

When he bottoms out, he stays there for a beat, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling at the sheer intimacy of it. You feel every inch of him, bare and pulsing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

“I love you,” you whisper, your breath stuttering. “I love you so much.”

He kisses you then — slow, open, deep — and begins to move.

The rhythm builds gradually, your hips meeting him halfway, your fingers digging into his arms as he fucks you with long, dragging thrusts that make your entire body sing. The room is filled with your moans, your names falling from each other’s lips like prayers. There’s no distance between you anymore. No layers of pain. Just skin and sweat and love.

When he pulls your leg higher and goes deeper, you sob out a broken cry, eyes squeezed shut from how intense it feels.

“Look at me,” he pleads. “Don’t look away.”

You do. And you see everything.

When you come this time, it’s with him — bodies pressed close, lips locked, everything clenching and shivering as you fall together.

After, you lie in the quiet, tangled in each other, your fingers brushing over his chest, his lips on your forehead, your thigh, your hand.

“I love you,” he whispers again, soft and sure.

You smile against his skin. This time, you believe it.

There is no fight, no push-pull. Only warmth. Only skin. Only the slow, glorious ache of making love to someone who knows where your soul lives — and chooses to return to it.

The night unfolds like a second chance. And when you both fall asleep — tangled, bare, with no lies left between you — it’s not the end.

It’s the encore that mattered most.

.

.

an: you can get access to early chapter and exclusive content to my stories here 🖤

taglist: @twiinkletae , @whoa-jo, @emixlyn, @maariinaaaaa , @strawberryberrygirl , @viacb97, @bhonbhon , @baechugff, @mrspotatas, @hrndzsposts , @zzztaegizz , @bubblyyz , @vandjklove , @queenmasterxx, @lynnnnnnn23 @alittlelostalittlefound @whoa-jo @azaood @mar-lo-pap @sweatycherryblossomluminary @jk-190811 @kelsyx33 @rkive994 @asyr97 @do-the-shammy @gracelyxxx @slut4jeon @alessioayla @deeznutkooks @thatbtssong @bjoriis @chxiosworld @ushymushygushy @vantaelis @ilovehotmen1234 @sillyminmin @kreighposts @llallaaa @anyarealita @youthguk

[faestunna]

WHAT IF…Stack knew just how to speak to you?

PAIRING: elijah moore (stack) x fem!reader

WC: 567

WARNINGS: smut (18+), p in v, unprotected sex, vulgar language and dialogue, creampie, maybe inaccurate translations

A/N: as always, the race/ethnicity of the reader is not disclosed and does not pertain to the story. smut is not my specialty and i wrote this up super quick but i thought i’d share 😌

After two semesters of Italian and a year of studying, i’ve been loving the idea of Stack knowing some Italian during his time in Chicago…

Maybe you speak some, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’ve spent more time in Chicago than you’d planned and picked up a few words along the way. Enough to understand what the men on the street were saying when they called after you.

So then maybe…you have just enough knowledge of it to understand what Stack whispers lowly in your ear with his fingers in your hair, pulling you to him as he plows into you from behind.

“Questa dolce figa.” You can feel his breath on your ear coming from his chest in heavy pants. He almost always does all of the work, but you’ll never hear him complain. “Così stretto che mi sta baciando.” This sweet pussy…so tight that it’s kissing me.

His hand drips the flesh on your hips like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough. Something inside you flutters at the sound of those words tinged so slightly but the swing of his accent. He must’ve been from somewhere deep in the South. You haven’t heard a voice like that in Chicago.

“You feel me, baby?” He asks as if you can answer. A broken moan croaks from your throat, earning a deep chuckle from Stack. “Esatto. Mi senti.” That’s right. You feel me.

Maybe he’ll flip you over so he can see you in all of your glory—head thrown back against the mattress, your tits bouncing along with every thrust he gives you. In between your legs is the sweet ache of a stretch you’d never felt before, not with any other man. Your hand reach for his shoulders, sweat lining his back. Stack knew that good things didn’t come easy; he works for what he wants.

And right now, your pussy is about the only thing in the world to him. To have your warmth practically consuming him to the point where he’d be cold as soon as your touch was gone.

“What’ya say about doing this every night, darlin’?” He says without halting or even slowing down his movements. He’s sitting up now, back straight with one of your legs pulled flat against his chest, reaching even deeper inside you. Stack pushes his thumb against your pearl. When he rubs, you swear you could’ve died right there. “Oh, beautiful girl,” he grins as you look up at him with heavy lids. “Ti farò mia.” I’m gonna make you mine.

Unable to let out anything coherent, he knew that he didn’t need to from the feeling of your grip clenching even more around his length before it began to flutter like a scattered pulse. Stack laughs, “Oh, wait. I already did.” He doesn’t pull himself from you or cease his movements. With sharp thrusts of his hips, he rides out the euphoria coursing through your body until he reaches his own.

You feel the mixture of your releases inside of you. Not a single bit drips out. When he goes to move, you grab his arm. “Wait,” you tell him, pulling his arm even tighter around you. He smiles. “I just wanna feel you.”

How can he say no to that face?

Stack doesn’t move. He’s got his arms wrapped around your torso. Keeping himself warm for as long as he wants, and you let him.

© faestunna 2025.

[babydoll372]

Creeper

Pairings: stalker!wanda maximoff x reader

Word count: 1945

Warnings: wanda is really creepy, filming without permission, photo taking without permission, masturbation (r), nude videos, degradation, slight humiliation kink, stalking, obsessive behavior

Some may call Wanda a stalker, some may call her absurd and obsessive, but all she did was embrace her passions. She adored photography, she loved sketching too, but most importantly, she worshiped the very idea of you, and what better way to spend her days than to combine all three? You didn’t know her well, Wanda liked to believe you did but truthfully you barely even knew her first name. The two of you shared an art class at your college, but that was it. What did you know about Wanda? Nothing. What did she know about you? Everything from your name to your home layout.

While at a community college, you lived with your parents in the home that you grew up in, just like Wanda did. Except you two lived five towns away from each other, but she didn’t care, she drove out every single evening to ensure she caught sight of you. When you were sleeping, she’d either ascend into your bedroom and take photos, or she’d linger outside your window and do the same. She had a box beneath her bed at home complete with captivating love notes she wrote to you without ever sending. Photos, artwork, envisions for your future, and so on filled this box. There was no distrust in Wanda’s mind, she had to have you.

She planned her arrival to class that next day, following you from a distance so she could get to class at precisely the correct time to sit next to you. That way she could finally talk to you or simply look at you closer up. Today you were wearing jeans and a cardigan, she couldn’t blame you considering the more frigid fall weather. At one point you removed the cardigan to reveal a plain white t-shirt that was tucked into your pants, making her bite her lip as she obscured her phone by her leg to take a picture and then feigned to use the device to text someone when in reality she was staring shamelessly at you. She had to ask to use the restroom merely to get a breather, and once she returned she vowed to herself that in the next forty-three minutes left, she would muster up the courage to at least emit a word to you. And twelve minutes later, she did.

“That looks really good.” She shyly confessed, peeking at your artwork. If anyone else saw it they’d think it was mundane, but it came from you; it was a jewel to Wanda. You looked over and beamed at her, and the woman swore she nearly fell over in her stool at the way your teeth were just barely detectable, your lips flawlessly plump, and your eyes ostensibly gleaming in line with hers.

“Thank you! What are you making?” There was now a flow of dialogue, just what Wanda needed. She tinkered with her paintbrush as you leaned over a bit to look, and she could get the remotest whiff of your perfume. She didn’t know how to describe what she was making without sounding insane, without telling you the entangled bodies she was painting were meant to resemble what her mind pictured most periods out of the day with you.

“Oh, uh, it- it’s..it’s meant to be a symbol of love between two, uhm..two women..” She tested the waters, wanting to see how you reacted to that information.

“Wow, I would’ve never thought of something like that…can I take a photo once you’re done?” She blushed, quickly bobbing her head in a form of agreement as she truly presumed she saw you look her up and down out of the corner of her eye. You must have, she knew there was a connection between you two.

That night Wanda again left with her camera, setting up in the bushes near your bedroom very uncomfortably, but none of that matters when she witnesses your body via your window. Your room faced layers of woods, trees were the only things that could be found for miles, you thought you didn’t have anything to worry about besides possibly an animal seeing you, which you couldn’t care less about. Little did you know the girl you just spoke to for the first time today was what you had to look out for. She snapped hundreds - thousands of photos as you undressed and got into pajamas. She then watched as you reached into your drawer, grabbing an item you held close to your palm. She furrowed her brows in confusion, observing you set up your laptop as you lay comfortably on your bed and lowered your shorts, displaying a bullet vibrator to be the culprit. She quickly turned the camera on record and didn’t move for the next half an hour as she watched you grow frustrated from a lack of orgasm, and ultimately give up. She was a bit disappointed to not see you reach that stage, yet it only fueled her desire to assist you in getting there.

Her drive was full, all of these photos being transported into the printer for her to store in her secretive box, and the videotape for her to keep in an album in her computer software. She had an entire album dedicated to videos of you - photos too, nothing could be put past her.

On the coming Monday in her art class, she had never been more elated to see you. The prior week the Professor informed the class that the next project would be paired, involving a sketched design between two people, and she had been preparing herself to ask you. She went out and bought some of the perfumes she saw on your nightstand in hopes you’d identify the scent and be lured to her, and she brushed her teeth four times this morning to ensure you weren’t turned off by a foul breath.

“Hey, Y/N!” She internally cursed herself, remembering last class she didn’t ask for your name. She hoped you’d pass it off and, surprisingly, you did. “Do you have a partner yet for the assignment? T-the paired one?”

“Oh, no, I don’t. Do you want to be mine?” You asked with a lifted brow and a slight grin, and for a moment she felt like you could read her every thought; she felt skittish but yet thankful.

“I’d love to! Uhm, maybe we could work on it outside of school? You know, to make sure we don’t fall behind..” She heard a tiny chuckle from you and feared the worst, clasping her lips together as she was ready for rejection.

“Yeah, whatever you think will help us pass. Any day works for me, we’ll go to my place, okay?” She didn’t challenge you for one second, and that proved to be the right move when a few days later she was actually walking into your house in broad daylight for the first time. This time, you were awake, fully conscious, and aware of her presence. She met your parents briefly, ate the food they made, and even went into your room with you - the same room she watched you masturbate in a few nights ago. She couldn’t help but glance at the bed and wonder what else you had done before. Wanda rested her laptop on the soft mattress as she sat alongside you, the two of you pondering between different concepts for the design.

"Can we use your laptop? Mine's dead and charging it will take forever." You groaned at just the reminder alone of the lack of battery you had, and Wanda agreed, although uncertain as she opened the screen and quickly closed all tabs beside one. She held her tightening bladder while you sat next to her, simply just to feel your arm barely grazing against hers, long enough for you two to find the ideal reference. She finally asked to use your restroom and instructed you on how to save the photo. As she left the room you skimmed the 'recent' section of her files to find it, only to click on the wrong PDF. Your eyes widened as you found a photo of you taken from outside of your room, your breasts on display as you were stretching a shirt over your arms. You glanced up to ensure Wanda was still in the bathroom directly across from your bedroom before clicking to the next image, and the next, and the next. Then came a video. You remembered the exact moment recorded, it came from just the other night. When your project partner came back in, her small voice sounded out as she closed the door behind her.

"Did you figure out how to save it?" She sat back down with a small plop, glimpsing over to eye the screen only to quickly haul it away when she recognized what was on it. She was standing again, holding her laptop close to her as her pupils were blown in shock behind her glasses, her face reddened. "I- I can explain, I swear!" She proclaimed, yet nothing followed it. She heard your scoff and lowered her head, ready to be scolded and forced to leave, reasonably so.

"You dirty little perv...I would've never suspected such a sweet girl to be so nasty." She swallowed shakily, slowly peeking back up at you when she saw your body move to be mere inches away from her.

"I really am sorry, you were never meant to find this." She mewled, wiping one of her eyes quickly as you cooed mockingly.

"Oh, I know, I know. You just planned to get off while being a little creep, stalking me while I was naked- while I was fucking masturbating. Were you hoping I was thinking of you, hm?" She slowly nodded in mortification, biting her lip as her mind reeled with the reminder. She could visualize the day you'd lie in front of her, purposely and knowingly, reciting the acts as you moaned her name.

"I just want you to like me too, Y/N..." She couldn't justify her filming, her photography, her deep obsession - all she could do was beg for you to allow her to stay, to move past what she did.

"...You're lucky you're cute, Wanda."

That night she went home with a kiss on her cheek and a large, mindless grin on her face, your lipstick print just barely evident. She didn't dare erase it, even after her twin brother teasingly pointed it out so that her parents would ask hundreds of questions. She ignored them, going to her room and sighing happily as she tucked herself into bed - pausing when she received a notification from an unknown number.

'For your little collection ;)' The text read, and she opened the video attachment with furrowed brows, her volume button instantly being attacked so no one could hear the loud moaning from your end, the whimpers, the groans. She heard her name multiple times, and her eyes couldn't decide between focusing on your pulsing clit vibrating against your toy, your tight hole greedily accepting two fingers, or your plump breasts slightly squished together by your arms. Previously, you couldn't reach your needed orgasm. However, Wanda felt drool pooling around her bottom lip as your legs shook violently, your body twitching as a result of the overbearing pleasure you were feeling. You slowly eased your fingers away from your hole after the vibrator came to a stop, and the woman on the other end let out a small moan as you licked the digits clean, wishing her a goodnight in your raspy, cultivating voice.

She was going to have a good night indeed.

[charcoaldustonmyfingers]

Splinter mutation speculation! This one is actually pretty old, I drew it before I did all that research on turtles :)

Fun facts about rats: When they are happy, they do a thing called bruxing and boggling, wherein they will grind their teeth together sometimes to the point where the muscles of their jaw make their eyes wiggle in their sockets. They also don’t have paw pads the way dogs or cats do, but instead have little bumps of thicker skin. Look up happy pet rats, they’re absolutely adorable!

These are mostly just my head canons for Splinter as an old jokester with a messed up past trying to do better for the future. We don’t actually see much of him in the show despite dialogue refrencing his daily lessons and his great ‘embarrassing dad’ comedy, so I wanted to speculate of how he might be when the cameras not rolling, per se. It’s tough being the single father of four teenagers without the help of a community, but the brothers are pretty well adjusted (relatively speaking) and are loving towards each other and open to others.

In terms of his anatomy though, while rats may look chubby, it’s in part because of their curved spine and rodent posture. They can get pretty slim when they stretch out. It may be because of these changes to his skeleton that Splinter seemingly shank so much from his human form, while still having the strength to beat people up despite his age. He also made a vow to stop fighting in the Battle Nexus leading to his eventual mutation, which he does break when his kids are on the line, but could be a reason as to why he avoided many of their squabbles in the show? Who knows!

There’s a lot to work with from little characterizations, and it’s fun to see all the different interpretations of his character!

[General][Raph][Donnie][Leo][Mikey]

[felikatze]

QoL as Kindness: ISAT's diagetic tutorials

This is the hopefully first of a series of posts I'll be doing reinterpreting ISAT's Loop through the lens of START AGAIN: a prologue's context. As such....

Major spoilers for both ISAT (all acts, including optional content) and SASASAP (all endings).

One of the biggest differences between ISAT and SASASAP is it’s QoL – it’s Quality of Life. QoL refers to all the little things that make a game just that little bit more playable; quick to navigate menus, quicksaving… tutorials.

It’s not really a surprise that SASASAP is as RPGmaker as RPGmaker gets. This isn’t a criticism, just an observation, and also a compliment to how much Adrienne’s skills with the engine improved between releases. Still, there’s some things that ISAT has over SASASAP.

ISAT’s QoL is absolutely essential to making it bearable. Anyone ever watch an ISAT playthrough where the player sighed in relief as the tutorial on picking where you loop came up?

SASASAP lacks a lot of ISAT’s QoL because it’s an earlier project without a studio backing it, but what impresses me is how this change ties into narrative.

Because the greatest chunk of ISAT’s greatest QoL is provided by Loop.

Even before you ever meet them, they’re already over your shoulder. Loop is the tutorial, speaking to you inside your brain. It’s genius, in that no player is ever going to question this. Hell, SASASAP’s movement tutorial is the exact same thing with less flavoring

This reframes what the QoL is – it’s not just a convenience to the player, it’s a convenience to Siffrin, too. It’s diegetic. It’s not something the game is giving you, it’s something Loop is giving you. Let’s look at what Loop gives you, and more importantly, why.

Zone Out

The first of the QoL features I want to talk about is the Zone Out function, the absolute bread and butter of not making this game a total slog.

The Zone Out feature as is did not exist in SASASAP (because Adrienne didn’t know how to do it yet) – instead, some doubled scenes let you just skip them entirely outright. There’s only two extremes: listen to all of it again, or none of it.

ISAT’s zone out system is much more dynamic, since it fast forwards dialogue line by line, letting you zone in whenever you’d like, and forcing you to zone in whenever a) something notably new happens, or b) whenever Siffrin speaks.

The way this feature is introced by Loop is kind of genius. Because Loop’s tutorial is about one thing – it’s okay to skip.

“You might miss what your party is saying, but who cares, right? If you make them mad, you can always loop back and they'll have forgotten all about it!”

It’s a cruel joke, or at least it seems that way on the surface. It’s also genuine advice. And a cruel joke at the same time. For Siffrin, freshly starting the loops, this is scandalous, but for Loop, who’s long since desensitized, it’s the same old same old.

What Loop’s doing here, by joking about Siffrin not listening to the party, is alliviate Siffrin’s guilt when they inevitably take Loop up on the offer. Because, even though Loop loves their party members…

From SASASAP, when sitting outside the bathroom:

(Will you get farther this time?) (Will you live this time?) (Or are you stuck listening to the same lines forever?) (…) (Stars, you’re so tired.)

Loop knows intimately well that Siffrin is going to drive themself insane trying to be a people pleaser every single loop, so this joke is telling the outright – don’t bother.

At first, Siffrin (and the player) still might. I really enjoyed reading the same conversations five times minimum because they’re fun and I’m deranged, but at some point I did start skipping them. And it was a relief to know there wouldn’t be anything new.

Siffrin: “Should I check everything again?” Loop: “You mean, should you check the same barrels, the same closets, the same objects on tables every loop?” Loop: “I mean, you can, but… You know things won’t change, right?” Loop: “If you really want to get a certain item again, or listen to your friends repeat something funny, you should!” Loop: “I personally would only check two or three things every loop, and ignore the rest.” Loop: “It will just make you crazy to expect something to change, when nothing will.” Loop: “All that might change is your reaction to it!”

The game is telling you, Loop is telling Siffrin, don’t drive yourself insane playing, please. The characters aren’t going to remember if you skipped something.

In the course of my script wizard activities, I’ve gotten an in-depth view of just how much that actually holds up. Pretty much all major differences are by Act, unrelated of how often you’ve done something. Minor variations apply for other things, but… those variations are minor.

And this also points out what all those variations are. Siffrin’s reactions!

Loop’s pre-empting Siffrin’s guilt, cuz they probably felt it themself. Hell, we do know they felt the pressure to perform and make sure nobody notices anything’s wrong, in SASASAP! Right up until the finale, Loop was driving themself up the wall.

(You have to act, you can't crack, you have to fake it and play it exactly as you did the first time for the whole way through so your friends don't find out anything is wrong) (You don't want to know what would happen if they knew their quest was in vain) (If they knew their quest for justice and change always ends in stillness and death!)

Acting everything out perfectly is one of the ending paths for SASASAP, which results in… complete and utter failure. Obviously.

(You acted perfectly normally, didn't you?) (Nothing out of place, nothing weird, every line the same as it might've been the first time?) (Ah…That was your mistake, wasn't it…?) (Because… Didn't your very first time… end exactly like this?) (The King throws the Housemaiden's body onto the floor again.)

Zoning out for too many conversations actually awards weird points in SASASAP, locking you out of the Perfect Ending. On the other hand, acting “perfectly” in ISAT… has no awards whatsoever. No special scene or or optional event or anything at all. You get nothing for paying attention!!!

So spare yourself the pain already, m’kay?

(On that note: I don’t think Loop not being sarcastic about it would’ve like… worked. At the start of ACT 2, Siffrin isn’t going to believe Loop when they say “Stop forcing yourself to relive the same thing over and over because you’ll start seeing your friends as disposable actors and lose touch with reality.” That all comes later, when Siffrin can look back on Loop’s words and see how right they were.)

Loop Back

The second biggest sigh of relief in any given ISAT playthrough is probably this specific tutorial.

Loop graciously shows you that you don’t need to loop back all the way to the beginning every single time. You can pick and choose where to go, even going forward by paying up with Memories of Skirmish.

This is a feature SASASAP does not possess, for the reason that it is much, much shorter, only covering about as much as one floor of ISAT’s three floor House.

But… since this is a character showing this to you, Loop showing this to you, we can ask… when did Loop learn this? After all, START AGAIN, Loop’s loops, do not have this feature.

“It'll save you time, so it's important, so listen up!”

This feature not existing in SASASAP means this is a thing that Loop did not know exists during their own time as Siffrin.

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? SASASAP’s Siffrin does not know how to do this. They cannot pick and choose where they end up, as demonstrated wonderfully by SASASAP’s True Ending. There’s an even more wonderful implication, though –

On SASASAP’s Perfect End path, when exiting the final room before the King, Isabeau says this:

Isabeau: “…I'm glad you're feeling better, though!” Siffrin: (…?) “What do you mean…?” Isabeau: “Oh!!! Um, you were…” Isabeau: “Well! You were acting a little weird when we were way closer to the Castle's entrance……” Isabeau: “You weren't really listening to us, you were kinda smiling the way you do when you're actually not happy…” Isabeau: “…and you like, almost acted like you knew exactly where you were going?” Isabeau: “But clearly you're feeling better now! You're acting just like normal!!!”

SASASAP’s Siffrin knew how to do this, somehow managed to lock themself into the House’s last floor… and then forgot how to get back. By making this tutorial, Loop is ensuring that Siffrin never will.

“What can I do next?” – SASASAP’s greatest flaw

So, if you’ve had the pleasure of playing START AGAIN START AGAIN START AGAIN: a prologue yourself (as you should), then you’ve probably faced this scenario, or some variation of it:

I got to the end, I died to the King, but… what do I do next? The game tells me to go for the extremes, but how do I do that?

(edit: apparently some of yall just managed to speedrun sasasap in two loops. You're gonna need to stay with me here, please. Suspend your disbelief a bit, because a lot of people [including me] were dumbasses about it)

Maybe you try another loop, but just get the same ending again (or a differnet one, depending on a coinflip). You’re getting frustrated. Getting the Perfect Ending demands pinpoint precision to avoid everything weird, the True Ending demands good memorization of every single damn key in the game, and the order you do everything in. (Though, to be fair, the requirements on that one are actually more merciful than one might expect.)

Point is, in SASASAP, it’s incredibly easy to get stuck in that endless loop of “What the fuck do I do now?” It’s not uncommon to think you got it right only to get the same result anyways. What does one do in this situation?

They consult a guide, obviously.

START AGAIN’s ending requirements are frustrating. They are. When I tried to go for either the Perfect or the True Ending, I saved inside every single room, just so I could get right back to it when I inevitably fucked up five times minimum. This is both criticism… and praise. Because Loop is the major reason that ISAT does not suffer from this same problem.

Whenever you’re stuck in ISAT, Loop is just a single loop or call away at any times. And besides that, no plot requirement in ISAT demands nearly as many moving pieces all at once as SASASAP does – the “Sus Route” has been relegated to an optional ACT 4 exclusive event, instead of the game’s True Ending.

Instead of consulting an external guide on how to progress, you have one right there in the game, always ready with the next tip. They’re not infallible, mind you – enough time in Isatcord’s #game-help proves that, but Loop solved all of the moments I got stuck and frustrated in ISAT for me.

(Primarily that one time you need to figure out that a photo is similar to being stuck in time. That moment in particular is actually commendable, as you need to ask Loop about it twice before they tell you, leaving you a last shot to try and figure it out on your own.) Loop is a feature that nullifies SASASAP’s greatest flaw in its successor, and they choose to do so.

Memory of Keys

In my humble opinion, Loop does this because… they do not want Siffrin to suffer as they did. They want Siffrin to escape. And there is no greater example of their kindness than how Loop treats keys.

First of all, all keys in the game have a sparkling effect on them if you’ve picked them up at least once before, making it immediately clear where in the room they are. This means you don’t need to search every single room top to bottom for them, as you had to do for any keys and Star Crests in SASASAP. It’s some nice QoL that just means you don’t have to re-search the same area if you happened to forget which specific cupboard the key was in.

Key point being: SASASAP did not have this feature. In SASASAP, you did have to memorize where all the keys are, and doing so is expected if you want the True Ending.

Loop does not want Siffrin to have to do this. Because…

From SASASAP’s True End:

(The torch in the infirmary? That’s important!) (The key in the book? Soooo important.) (The names of your friends, that have been by your side throughout this entire adventure?) (Not worth remembering.)

Compared to ISAT’s ACT 2:

Siffrin: “How come I can see where the keys are?” Loop: “Whaaaaat? You caaaaaan? How can that beeeeeee?” Siffrin: “Is it thanks to you?” Loop: “Maybe.” Loop: “I figured you'd have other things to worry about than where a stupid key is.” Loop: “No need to thank me.”

To Loop, that they memorized the House’s layout over their friends’ names is a defining moment to their own failures. After all, in all likelihood, the True End of SASASAP is the last loop before they called it quits. It’s a traumatic experience from them, one that came from having to remember all the dumb fucking keys.

They do not want Siffrin to experience this. They do not want Siffrin to have to memorize the House, to push away what actually matters in favor of efficiency. So Loop is directly, personally, giving them a boon, so that Siffrin does not have to.

Conclusion

There’s probably more tutorial things I could talk about, but I feel like you’re seeing the pattern now, even if I don’t bring up saving level ups or keeping equipment or the “You’re stuck” signifier, least of all cuz they don’t have direct points of comparison with SASASAP like my other examples do (SASASAP has no changeable equipment, and saving levels doesn’t matter if you only have one floor, and you can’t softlock either.). So.

Loop’s tutorials all belie a fundamental kindness to their character. Everything that made their own experience trapped in the timeloop just that bit worse, they’re choosing to do away with it for Siffrin. They are choosing to make Siffrin’s time here easier.

Zoning out too much lead to them never paying attention to their friends, forgetting their names, so they make sure that Siffrin can still zone back in whenever something new happens.

Loop trapped themself for years on the final floor, locking themself out of progress that might lie further back, so they’re ensuring Siffrin knows exactly how to loop forwards and backwards so it doesn’t happen again.

Loop lets Siffrin keep equipment across loops to cut down on time spent doing the exact same thing over and over.

They are saving Siffrin time, and they are giving Siffrin comfort. At every single turn, Loop is saving Siffrin from the same pitfalls they fell into without anyone to guide them out.

It's honestly incredible to transform an increase in skill into an actual narrative element. Yes, SASASAP sucks more to play. But ISAT sucks less, because Loop wants it to. It's the perfect marriage of real world circumstance and storytelling. I could... probably pull another comparison here, saying it's like a game and its remake - overhauled graphics, expanded story, and loads and loads of QoL, because the makers of the remake realized something. They love the original, but parts of it do suck, and there's so much that can be done to make a new player's experience smoother. Metanarrative commentary,,,, woah,,,,,

Every single one of these QoL elements I’ve mentioned function as a crutch for a player’s failing memory, but also Siffrin’s (similar to what I talked about in my previous essay on ISAT’s ludonarrative - the player and Siffrin are always in sync, even in how tutorials benefit them). Loop doesn’t know the player exists though (only the Change God does), so they do everything for Siffrin.

To keep Siffrin from forgetting. To help Siffrin focus on what’s important. To make Siffrin’s journey just a little bit less miserable. Loop directly improves ISAT’s QoL. For you. For Siffrin.

From Loop’s introduction:

Loop: “See, I’m useful! I’m very useful! That’s why I’m here, helpful Loop.” Siffrin: “Why are you helping me?” Loop: “…” Loop: “Because I think you should be helped.” Loop: “I won’t always have the answers, but… I think having someone on your side to talk to is better than dealing with this alone.” Loop: “Right?”

From Loop’s hangout:

“But it’s fine.” “Whether you believe me or not, I’m here to help you.” “So you can escape this loop.”

And finally, from the start of ACT 3:

Siffrin: “Are you really here to help me?” Loop: “Stardust…” Loop: “…” Loop: “Yes.” Loop: “If you can believe anything, believe that.” Loop: “I asked to be here, so I could help you.”

And I do believe them. Loop’s feelings on Siffrin are… complex, to say the least. They love Siffrin, and they hate him in equal measure. They’re jealous, and spiteful, but underneath everything…

In SASASAP, if you die to a Sadness thrice, you get this monologue:

(Sometimes, when you loop back here…) (In the corner of your eye, you can sometimes see someone that looks just like you.) (Is it a you from another loop? Remnants of your past failures?) (Are you going crazy?) (May they succeed where you cannot.)

[lilacxquartz]

Can you PLEASE write a Mr crawling pegging fanfic, maybe the Mc has a biting kink too🙏🙏 I don't really have anything too specific in mind, I just want him to get pegged🙏

-👻 anon

such a needy thing;

mr. crawling x f!reader

plot: mr. crawling was often on his knees but tonight he was arching his back for you — themes: pegging, needy/clingy mr. crawling, limited dialogue, dominant!reader, anal (giving) — a/n: finished this up late night, hope this is okay! i couldn’t work biting into the position, but this might be revisited again! — w.c: ~ 1.3k • masterlist • ao3

From the moment you had both discovered each other’s bodies, Mr. Crawling had been awoken with a different sort of hunger that only you could feed. Over and over, he desperately craved the touch of your skin on his, along with all of the soft feelings that came after.

For the most part though? All he wanted to do was to be as close as possible to you, no matter what it took. Perhaps it was natural for your mind to react in such a particular way then, for you to adopt an almost dominant streak when it come to him.

And when such a time arrived, after a long while of explaining (or attempting to), he seemed excited at the prospect, trembling at the thought in anticipation. You tried to explain to him that this was through an object, not through you, but he didn’t care nor have a single protest. He seemed to be happy that you were exploring with him—with only him—ready to melt beneath you in all sorts of ways.

Mr. Crawling’s body quivered as you approached him, goosebumps forming alongside his ashen skin. His lips hinted at excitement, just barely visible behind his cascading long black hair. As you bridged the distance between you both, he whimpered at the thought of what was soon to come.

“Need… you,” he said, branching out his hand to touch against yours. Need. That was a word you had both come to understand; always repeated like a swirling mantra in the back of your head. He needed you always—constantly—just as you needed him too.

You nodded to confirm that this was in fact happening, murmuring out a faint “need you,” back, letting the implication linger in the air, watching as his skin grew somehow clammy and rosy as a flustered state overwhelmed him, his arousal becoming very apparent in between his legs.

Taking the strap from a drawer nearby, you fitted the belt around your hips, adjusting the toy to ensure that it could be secured around you perfectly well. You made sure to find one in a size similar to his own so that the feeling that you gave him could be equal to the one he similar to the one he gave you back.

“I… feel… good?” he asked, taking note of the contraption. How he saw without eyes was an eternal mystery to you.

You nodded again, guiding him over to the bed, gently pushing his body down to the mattress, all the while he regarded you with an almost awestruck stare; his cheeks bleeding crimson as his breath shuddered in jagged gasps.

Letting your eyes wander over to his throbbing need, you snaked down a hand just beneath the fabric he wore, letting his sensitive length fill out your palm. His own hands in turn, balled into fists from the sensation of your skin on his, feeling his cock grow almost impossibly hard. Slowly, you broke through the tension by stroking up and down the shaft, feeling rightfully powerful as he trembled and whined the entire time—completely under your mercy—like melting putty in your hands.

“Do you like this?” you asked, tilting your head off to the side as you studied his reaction intently.

Mr. Crawling nodded eagerly, his voice sounding excited as he replied to you, “I like! I like!”

Seeming pleased with him, you then took a step back, gently turning him over so that the front of his body kissed against the mattress. His palms pressed up against the soft fabric, clawing at the material. He was already so excited and you hadn’t even started yet. How endearing.

Steadily, you lifted his hips closer to your own, lining up the lubricated tip of the strap-on against his tight, awaiting ask. You rubbed the head of the toy against his entrance, enjoying the sounds of his needy whimpers, involuntarily begging for you to enter.

Slowly, you began to push forward, not quite feeling the tightness of his insides swallow around the thick girth, but feeling the resistance of his core as you settled deep into him. Mr. Crawling’s body tensed and trembled, but he didn’t seem to be in pain. You were careful, after all. You wanted him to feel good.

And just as you thought that, he confirmed it for you. “Feel good. Feel good.”

Continuing, you eased the strap fully into him, watching with building delight as his back arched inwards in a display of pleasure, all the while you sank the toy as deep as you could go before letting it sit in him, allowing him to memorise the feel of it for a beat before pulling out ever so slightly—slowly fucking him into an impatient, flustered mess.

As you got into the rhythm, you maintained something initially slow for his sake, leaning ever so slightly forward and reaching your hand to meet with his arousal once more. In the heat of the moment, you wrapped your fingers clean around his cock, taking note of just how desperately he bucked into your touch and soon moving his body to milk at the pleasure however much he could.

Soon enough, he descended into a building crescendo of fluttering murmurs that were barely uttered with just how breathless he was. His hips worked to push back against the strap, inviting you to take him even deeper—feeling so loved yet overwhelmed from the sensation of you slamming into the hilt of his ass. He panted heavily with his hair parting with the sweat that clung against it and as he lost himself, he found himself drooling onto the sheets.

Of course, you kept it up for him as you felt around his body, feeling with your own two hands with how he quickly came undone, just barely containing the burning—almost scalding need for his pent-up release. Rutting at a brisker pace that time, you slid in again into his form, hitting all of the right spots all the while his cock began to leak in combination with the act of you dominating him as well as the stroking touch.

His end was close—you could feel it.

As such, you couldn’t help but smile, doubling your efforts in the process and pounding into him with such force that it almost left you feeling just as breathless as he was. Soon enough, his vocalisations became all the less coherent, muttering out a whole slurry of words that you couldn’t understand until finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Mr. Crawling gasped—or rather—choked out a desperate moan, seizing up his body as his orgasm had finally taken him over, possessing him for a moment. His cock pulsed and twitched in your hand, spurting thick, white ropes out and ruining the sheets, before finally collapsing face down into the bed.

Seeming perfectly pleased, you slowly pulled out of him and took the belt off after a moment of silence, watching him surrender beneath you. Feeling your heart melt at the sight, too, you couldn’t help but lay down next to him, pulling him in as close as you possibly could.

Now, Mr. Crawling was a lot taller than you and usually, this sort of experienced would be flipped, but you could feel just how vulnerable felt in your arms for a change. He fit against your cuddling form perfectly with his slightly damp hair sticking against your skin, not that you minded at all.

And as he recovered within your shadow, you stroked along his body with a delicate hand as a familiar word emerged between you both. Something that you had both come to learn and appreciate—something a little more tender than love.

“Yours,” he whispered out right before falling silent, completely and utterly spent and in need of recovery. Your hand rested on his heart as you felt him drift off, before settling even further into the back crook of his neck, feeling so lucky to have someone like him, forever eternally close.

You whispered it back after a moment, feeling yourself follow him off to sleep, “Yours.”

[nondelphic]

minor side characters are the backbone of the story because, without them, who else is going to deliver a single line of dialogue that derails the entire plot in a way they never intended?

[vivsinkpot]

The Words We Don’t Say: Dialogue Should Reveal, Not Just Inform.

Every line of dialogue is a tiny window into who your characters are, not just what they need to say. In real life, people rarely say exactly what they mean. They dodge, hint, exaggerate, fall silent, or say one thing when they feel another. Your characters should, too.

Good dialogue isn’t about giving information cleanly — it’s about revealing layers.

For example:

A character could say “I’m fine,” while tightening her grip on the table so hard her knuckles go white.

He could say “You’re impossible,” but his voice is soft, almost laughing — meaning you’re impossible and I love you for it.

She could say “I hate you,” in the rain, soaked through, desperate — meaning don’t leave.

The surface words and the real emotions don’t always match. That’s where the tension lives.

That’s what makes dialogue linger.

Three quick tricks to deepen your dialogue:

1. Layer emotion under the words.

Surface: What are they saying?

Subtext: What do they really mean?

Conflict: What’s holding them back from just saying it?

E.g. Two best friends sitting in a car after one of them has announced she’s moving across the country.

She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, staring straight ahead.

“You’ll forget about me after a week,” she said, light, almost laughing.

Surface: She says he’ll forget about her.

You’ll forget about me after a week. (The outward words are casual, a joke.)

Subtext: She’s terrified of being left behind, feeling abandoned.

I’m scared you don’t care enough. I don’t want to be alone. Please tell me you’ll miss me.

Conflict: She doesn’t want to beg him to stay — she’s too proud, too afraid he doesn’t feel the same.

She wants to stay close, to ask for reassurance — but fear of rejection makes her hide her true feelings under humor.

2. Use silence and body language.

• A pause can scream louder than a speech.

• A glance away can whisper I’m afraid better than a thousand words.

E.g. After her apology, it’s his silence — heavy, raw, unspoken — that says everything words can’t.

After an argument, she finally admits, in a shaking voice, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He says nothing.

Instead, he leans back against the wall, scrubbing a hand across his mouth, looking everywhere but at her.

The silence stretches between them — heavy, aching, almost unbearable.

When he finally does speak, his voice is hoarse: “I know.”

Breakdown:

Pause: His silence after her admission isn’t empty — it’s full. It screams his hurt, his struggle to forgive, his overwhelming emotions.

Body Language: Scrubbing his hand across his mouth, looking away — it all whispers I’m overwhelmed. I’m hurt. I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling.

Result: The tension between them becomes almost physical without a single extra word.

3. Let characters miscommunicate.

• Real conversations are messy.

• People interrupt, misunderstand, react to what they think they heard.

• That tension is pure narrative gold.

E.g. A confession turns into heartbreak when he misunderstands her words and walks away before she can explain.

She pulls him aside at the crowded party, her voice low and urgent.

“I need to tell you something — about us,” she says.

He stiffens immediately, crossing his arms. “Don’t bother. I get it. You regret everything.”

She blinks, hurt flashing across her face.

“No, that’s not what I meant—”

But he’s already turning away, anger burning in his chest.

She watches him go, the words she was really about to say — I love you — still caught in her throat.

Breakdown:

Miscommunication: He interrupts and jumps to conclusions, assuming the worst.

Realism: Conversations are messy; people hear what they’re most afraid of hearing.

Narrative Gold: Now, there’s heartbreak, regret, and a perfect setup for future emotional payoff when they finally untangle the truth.

Some brilliant examples to study:

‘Normal People’ by Sally Rooney — where miscommunication becomes the air between them.

‘Pride and Prejudice’ by Jane Austen — where formality and wit mask tenderness and fear.

‘Six of Crows’ by Leigh Bardugo — where silence says what pride refuses to.

Dialogue is not just a tool for moving the plot.

It’s a doorway into the heart of your story.

Open it carefully.

[aidenwaites]

real talk though!!! Dichen Lachman's performance. the whole entire show, everything that Severance is, stems from the catalyst that was Gemma's death. She and Mark's love for her are the driving force behind it all. He wouldn't be there if not for the fact of her death. Petey wouldn't have had Mark to seek on the outside if not for the fact that Mark was so broken up by her death that he split his brain in half. That he would stitch it back together at the risk of his own death just to see her again.

That creates a huge, huge responsibility in finally presenting Gemma to the audience. They had to show us a person and a love that is so enduring that it would create the Mark that we've gotten to know, or else the whole entire premise falls in on itself. And they delivered!! Dichen Lachman plays a Gemma that is so charming, and confident, and smart, and so, so rounded. In a single episode we see the kind of drive that carries her, the things she falls in love with. In a single glance and barely a line of dialogue between Gemma and Devon, we can see the whole depth of their friendship. We know what she's scared of. We know that even her innie has moments of rebellion, that she refuses to live without seeing answers, that she lets her sense of hope push her forwards. In a single episode, a season and a half into the show, we've finally met Gemma and immediately it clicked why someone would walk right down into hell just to get her back.

[e-b-reads]

OK this is an excuse for me to be a little pretentious/pedantic, but I figured others might also want the opportunity to be a little pretentious/pedantic, so I'm making a poll out of it!

My pretension: I like reading (duh!), and I'm OK with a little inaccuracy for the sake of artistry. I mean, there are definitely authors who never bother to google basic terminology in a field, or try to write convincing history (or fantasy) without actually knowing much history...but if an author I otherwise like gets a little detail wrong about some specialist thing, I'm not likely to even notice. Except! If the thing is about boats/sailing. Examples below, but first, the poll:

I'm sure there's some technical mistakes (especially related to boats I'm less used to, like tall ships) that still slip by me. But I've had a couple times recently (different books/authors) where I was reading and enjoying myself and was suddenly twitched out of the story by an inaccuracy. One book where someone was asked to secure the boom after a tack (on a nice 45-ft modern sloop) which already doesn't make a ton of sense, and then she moved to a strange place in the boat to apparently do this. Another where the author twice mixed up jibing and tacking in dialogue (on the lines of "Don't sail to close to the wind or you'll jibe!" At least once the speaker was supposed to be an expert sailor).

Anyway, I still enjoyed the books overall, but I noticed both times I literally had to stop reading a think for a second, like wait, was I imagining it wrong? No, it's the author's fault! So now I'm telling you all about it.

[physalian]

What No One Tells You About Writing Fantasy

Every author has their preferred genres. I love fantasy and sci-fi, but began with historical fiction. I hated all the research that historical fiction demands and thought, if I build my own world, no research required.

Boy, was I wrong.

So to anyone dipping their toe into fantasy/sci-fi, here’s seven things I wish I knew about the genres before I committed to writing for them.

1. You still have to research. Everything.

If you want any of your fantasy battle sequences, or your space ships, or your droids and robots, or your fictional government and fictional politics to read at all believable.

In sci-fi, you research astronomy, robotics, politics, political science, history, engineering, anthropology. In fantasy, you have to research historical battle tactics, geography, real-world mythology, folklore, and fairytales, and much of it overlaps with science fiction.

I say you *have to* assuming you want your work to be original and unique and stand out from the crowd. Fanfic writers put in the research for a 30k word smut fic, you can and will have to research for your original work.

2. Naming everything gets exhausting

I hate coming up with new names, especially when I write worlds and places divorced from Earthly customs and can’t rely on Earthly naming conventions. You have to name all your characters, all your towns, villages, cities, realms, kingdoms, planets, galaxies, star systems.

You have to name your rebel faction, your imperial government, significant battles. Your spaceships, your fantasy companies and organizations, your magic system, made-up MacGuffins, androids, computer programs. The list goes on and on and on.

And you have to do it all without it sounding and reading ridiculous and unpronounceable, or racist. Your fantasy realms have to have believable naming patterns. It. Gets. Exhausting.

3. It will never read like you’re watching a movie

Do you know how fast movies can cut between scenes? Movies can balance five plotlines at once all converging with rapid edits, without losing their audience. Sometimes single lines of dialogue, or single wordless shots are all a scene gets before it cuts. If you try to replicate that by head-hopping around, you will make a mess.

It’s perfectly fine to write like you’re watching a movie, but you can’t rely on visual tricks to get your point across when all you have is text on a page – like slow mo, lens flares, epically lit cinematic shots, or the aforementioned rapid edits.

It doesn’t have to, nor should it, look like a movie. Books existed long before film, so don’t let yourself get caught up in how ~cinematic~ it may or may not look.

4. Your space opera will be compared to Star Wars and Star Trek

And your fairy epic will be compared to Tinkerbell, your vampires to Twilight, your zombies to The Walking Dead, Shaun of the Dead, World War Z. Your wizards and witches and any whisper of a fantasy school for fantasy children will be compared to Harry Potter. Your high fantasy adventure will be compared to Lord of the Rings.

You can’t avoid it, but you can avoid doing it to yourself. When people ask about your book, let them say “oh, you mean like Star Wars” to which you then can say, kind of, except XYZ happens in my book. These IPs will never fade from the public consciousness, not while you exist to read this post, at least, but Harry Potter isn’t the only urban fantasy out there. Lord of the Rings isn’t the only high fantasy. Star Wars isn’t the only space opera.

Yours will be on the shelves right next to them, soon enough, and who knows? You might dethrone them.

5. Your world-building is an iceberg, and your book is the tip

I don’t pay for any of those programs that help you organize your book and mythos. I write exclusively on Apple Notes, MS Word, and Google Suite (and all are free to me). I have folders on Apple Notes with more words inside them than the books they’re written for.

If you try to cram an entire college textbook’s worth of content into your novel, you will have left zero room for actual story. The same goes for all the research you did, all the hours slaving away for just a few details and strings of dialogue.

There’s a balance, no matter how dense your story is. If you really want to include all those extra details, slap some appendices at the end. Commission some maps.

6. The gatekeeping for fantasy and sci-fi is still very real

Pen names and pseudonyms exist for a reason. A female author writing fantasy that isn’t just a backdrop for romance? You have a harder battle ahead of you than your male counterparts, at least in the US. And even then, your female protagonist will be scrutinized and torn apart.

She’ll either be too girly or not girly enough, too sexy, or not sexy enough. She’ll be called a Mary Sue, a radical feminist mouthpiece, some woke propaganda. Every action she takes will be criticized as unrealistic and if she has fans who are girls, they will be mocked, too.

If you have queer characters, characters of color, they won’t be good enough, they won’t please everyone, and someone will still call you a bigot. A lot of someones will still call you a bigot.

Do your due diligence and hire your army of sensitivity readers and listen to them, but you cannot please everyone, so might as well write to please yourself. You’re the one who will have to read it a thousand times until it’s published.

7. Your “original” idea has been done before, and that’s okay

Stories have been told since before language evolved. The sum of the parts of your novel may be original, but even then, it’s colored by the media you’ve consumed. And that’s okay!

How many Cinderella stories are there? How many high fantasies? How many books about werewolves and witches and vampires? Gods and goddesses and celestial beings? Fairies and dragons and trolls? Aliens, robots, alien robots? Romeo and Juliette? Superheroes and mutants?

Zombies may be the avenue through which you tell your story, but it’s not *just* about zombies, is it? It’s about the characters who battle them, the endurance of the human spirit, or the end of an era, the death of a nation. So don’t get discouraged, everyone before you and everyone after will have written someone on the backs of what came before and it still feels new.

[fudgecake-charlie]

"They think I’m the least dangerous person in this car, do they? Well, they’re about to learn very differently."

Decided to redraw a moment from On the Getaway Mile by Odaigahara on AO3/ @droidofmay !

This may have taken a ridiculous amount of hours condensed into a few days and I went through it drawing cars and car interiors, but this was an absolute blast to do :D I hope I've done the fic sort of justice.

Process shots and long comparison rambles under the cut!

Welcome to my secret lair!!

I spent roughly... 18 hours working on this, the majority during this week and over the past three days, so I need to share my toils with people <3

Character/car references and page thumbnails! Featuring an incorrect scene placement and bad camera position. I reread the scene and placed it properly in the actual page. I hate drawing cars!! I was actually the most worried about panel placement when I started this— I was a guy who only did non narrative/illustrative panel pages and layout-less comics, but it wasn't that bad with a script! I could separate beats into panels, note which panels should be emphasised/larger, and assembled that into a page.

If you compare the fic with this comic, you can see how much dialogue I edited and moments I cut out. I couldn't fit it all on without having to draw even more pages, I wish I could though! Poor Mumbo only gets one line here. I'm so sorry my darling man <3 I also gave him a slight cyborg design because his implants are really important for his character and I needed some way to visually show that, even if it's not canon/mentioned.

The colouring method for this was really fun! It's similar to my aggie rainbow painting method but with less steps, hence narrow value range. It looks pretty and gets the vibe across well though.

Rapid fire points!

I was planning to do 3 different fic comics! Not anymore!!!

This is absolutely for the hotguy comic zine applications. <3 "Can I try rizzing you up // PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE" /ref

I drew page 2 first, then 3, then 1. I think you can tell!

Mumbo is sitting on the wrong side and should have his seatbelt on. He's also not carrying the stolen laptop as described.

It's explicitly noted that Mumbo cannot scan Grian like he can with Scar. Whoops!

Transmissions from the Foundation are via Mumbo and Scar's implants, but I couldn't think of a good way to portray that.

Despite guns and weapons being mentioned, I somehow didn't get the opportunity to draw a single one.

I love hand lettering. I also hate it! I will continue to do it.

Here are the no colour pages as a thank you for scrolling <3

[saintvainglorious]

Fics I Enjoyed in December - DC Comics Fic Rec List

Fell headfirst back into DC Comics for the first time in years this month. Reread some old favorites and discovered some new gems!

My January DC Comics fic rec list is here!

Heart, Humble by Betty (Mature, 8k, 2005) Jack Drake deals with finding out that Tim is Robin (poorly, and then not so poorly). THEE canon-accurate Jack Drake-focused fic of all time, this is canon in my heart.

Back then, all the boys his age had hero-worshipped costumed vigilantes. Jack supposes they still do.

Exit Strategy by smilebackwards/@smilebackwards (Teen & Up, 13k, 2021) Tim plans to leave a family he thinks he was never really a part of and decides to train Damian on how to run Wayne Enterprises before he goes. Delicious angst, excellent character work, and fun Wayne Enterprises worldbuilding.

Batman needs a Robin and Batman has a Robin. Tim is just extraneous now, vestigial. He’s a bandage over a healed wound. He doesn’t know what he’s hanging on to. Or: Tim didn’t expect his exit strategy from the Batfamily to involve quite so much bonding time with Damian over Wayne Enterprises bureaucracy.

On the Downbeat by medusaceratops (Teen & Up, 2k, 2019) Bruce and Jason talk while waiting in line at a drive-thru (featuring Gotham-typical violence and husborth-typical gorgeous prose). I've always adored husborth's Star Wars fics and I'm so glad I dipped my toe into their DC works, no one's writing hits quite like husborth.

Jason has recovered his sanity, and Bruce and Jason have recovered their relationship; but there are some things that are hard to forget.

A Zoo for Canines by medusaceratops (Mature, 45k, 2019) Part 2 of Zoology; Dick and Jason try to help Bruce recover from addiction. If you're used to fanon Dick Grayson (cheery, friendly, forgiving) you will not find him here - his anger and pain is ugly, raw, and so fucking captivating.

Edit: This fic and the series has since been deleted off ao3, though Part 1 (An Aquarium of Nameless Things) is still up; DM me if you'd like to read it.

Dick, Bruce, and Jason head out to a cabin in the mountains, and they handle things about as well as they handle anything.

All the Roofs of Uncertainty by Kieron_ODuibhir/@kieron-oduibhir (General Audiences, 70k, 2015) Dick almost dies and makes Jason promise to take care of the family for him. A masterclass demonstration on how DC fic can square all the wildly divergent canon versions of Jason Todd into a single compelling character.

For all the blood on his hands, Red Hood was never just a villain. And Nightwing never gives up on family, not for good. (Or: The one where Dick bleeds a lot and Jason argues with everybody.)

The Till-Then From the Ever-Since by Kieron_ODuibhir/@kieron-oduibhir (General Audiences, 85k (WIP), 2020) Kid versions of the whole Batfamily mysteriously time travel to the future! I livetexted a friend the whole time I read this so I could yell about how amazing the character writing is; also I'm wildly impressed with how the author deftly handles tons of dialogue-heavy scenes with like 12+ guys in it without anyone going unmentioned.

It began, or seemed to begin, with Jason. Usually that would have meant something in the order of fire and explosion and probably at least one gunshot wound, but for once (as Tim said, sourly), it wasn't actually Jason's fault.

only you will have stars that can laugh by silverwhittlingknife/@silverwhittlingknife (Teen & Up, 9k, 2022) Dick finds out Tim is alone on Christmas and invites him to Babs' Christmas party. Discovered silverwhittlingknife through their galaxy brained Dick & Tim meta essays, stayed for every single line of Chapter 2 ripping out my heart and roasting it over an open flame.

You coming over is possibly the only thing that’s gonna stop me from wanting to punch your dad in the face, Dick doesn’t say. My current Christmas Day plans are 1) pace around at home, and 2) try not to obsess about what Bruce is up to, so trust me, you’ll be an improvement, Dick doesn’t say. Tim's alone on Christmas Eve. Dick finds out, and fixes it.

nerve endings by silverwhittlingknife/@silverwhittlingknife (Teen & Up, 5k (WIP), 2024) Post-Catalina Flores, Dick, Tim, and Bruce go on a (canon-accurate) cruise and dance around their open wounds. This is a glorious example of "he WOULD fucking say that", Dick's voice is so canon-accurate that the angst is even more painful i cri

It's all right, even, to have a foreign hand pressing against his skin, testing him, testing his reactions. He keeps his breathing controlled. Just Tim, damn you, it’s just Tim, don’t fuck it up. Dick's on a cruise with Bruce and Tim. And he's fine. Mostly.

Red Letter Day by silverwhittlingknife/@silverwhittlingknife (Teen & Up, 42k (WIP), 2022) Dick is sure the cryptic scribble in his agenda refers to something he's supposed to do for Damian, but he can't remember what. Mostly about Tim and Dick s l o w l y mending the post-Damian rupture in their relationship, but the whole family is here and Jason, especially, is fucking hilarious.

Dick Grayson, stressed pseudo-parent to a preteen assassin, tries to solve the case of Damian’s Mysterious Wednesday. He never expected it to help him fix his relationship with Tim, too. (… Though only after everything fell apart first.)

Gonna Be A Better One (A Thousand Miles To Your Door) by Traincat/@traincat (Teen & Up, 18k, 2011) Tim and Kon keep dating even after Jack forces Tim to retire as Robin. I reread this fic annually and every time am delighted to rediscover how funny and heartwarming and squee-inducingly kind it is, pure Timkon perfection.

In which Tim quits being Robin, Kon refuses to quit Tim and Ma Kent is full of relationship advice.

last light in a darkened room by bigdamnher0/@bigdvmnhero (Not Rated, 6k, 2024) Tim finds a distressing video of Robin!Dick and wishes that things were different. The whole fic, particularly Tim manifesting a happy ending in the bathroom, is a gorgeously crafted tragedy such that you're left kind of awed at how thoroughly massacred your heart and soul are post-read.

Tuesday morning: a video was uploaded to one of the deep web black markets. The footage, shot on those grainy vintage camcorders. But Tim knew that boy in the thumbnail; his eyes had memorized him, the heft and shape and dazzle of him, imprinting like an afterimage. Or: a brother is a witness; there's your tragedy.

buy back the secrets by sundiscus/@vinelark (Teen & Up, 91k (WIP), 2024) Superboy rescues civilian Tim Drake before learning that Tim is Robin and shenanigans ensue. I spent my whole holiday vacation intermittently screaming at this fic while my family members looked on with vague concern this fic is ADORABLE and AGONIZING and PERFECT please and THANK YOU.

He takes a long, slow breath. Ignores the glares from the other students. “Superboy,” he murmurs. “It’s me. If you’re listening, I could use some help.” Or: 5 times Superboy saves Tim Drake, and one time Tim Drake saves Superboy.

[hatsukeii]

hi to the 🐤

no rush for this request(?) at all!! i was just rotting thinking about childhood bsf iwaizumi hajime with reader in high school and the fic could be about how hajime is too used to the spotlight being taken by oikawa and gets half sad when he thinks u also got stolen by him but no they’re just scheme to plan a huge date for her to ask him out

OWMXKWNC OR OR OR OR childhood bsf ushijima (do u see a pattern?) always being next to reader and always being there for her, helping her run errands, do stuff and he’s like a rlly big lost puppy following her around and one day they’re just like ‘WE’RE DATING?!’ ‘What do you mean? We’ve been dating since you said yes to my ring pop proposal’

thank you for greeting duck the goose:)

i feel like i haven’t written about iwa nearly enough (he is a need btw yes iwaizume hajime (27) athletic trainer save me) BUT i will get to your ushiwaka one soon after as well‼️ gonna feed the iwa crowd today

bags / childhood bsf!iwaizumi hajime x reader

genre(s) - childhood bsf to lovers!! slight angst, but with a good, fluffy ending, oikawa being his usual self, iwa being hot as always

warning(s) - bags by clairo used for a MAN and not a WOMAN smh:( it just fit well though and I love it, gn reader so the girls the gays and the theys are all covered for!! no serious warnings today my pookies<3

wc: 1834

tldr; he waits for the right time with your bag in his hands, hoping for the day he can hold you with them instead

Iwaizumi Hajime (13) has been holding your bags since the days of middle school. Without fail, every afternoon at 3:10pm exactly as the school bell rings, he is standing outside your classroom, his own bag slung over one shoulder for yours to go on the other. Then, he slings it onto himself, and watches you and Oikawa walk out of the classroom together, cursing to himself for never being put in the same class as the two of you. He drags behind, two bags weighing his little middle-schooler body down, but a toothy grin plastered across his face whenever you look back at him with that face. That face with the ever so slightly widened eyes, and lips apart in a worrisome smile.

“Are you sure you can hold two bags, Iwaizumi? I can take it back!”

“I’m fine! It’s all good!”

Middle schooler Iwaizumi Hajime (13) watches you through Oikawa’s squinted eyes as the two of you chat and giggle on the walk home, his footsteps still lagging behind. He’s rarely close to you, unlike Oikawa, so his mind has to fill the blanks. He remembers hearing you mention the crow’s feet that line the corners of your eyes once in passing to Oikawa, who then rambles on about how they look like whiskers on a cat. He recalls the time you face planted into the floor of the school playground, earning you a faint, white scar that slashes across your top lip. He watches you through Oikawa’s eyes like he’s reading a story. But this is Oikawa’s story, Oikawa’s dialogue, Oikawa’s conversations with you, Oikawa’s descriptions of your face, blank spots filled in with blurry recollections of the details of you, stolen from the vibrations in the air between you and Oikawa, all playing out in front of Iwaizumi’s eyes with your bag slung over his shoulder.

Once in a while (every single day), even now, as the three of you continue to walk home together from Aoba Johsai after volleyball practise, Oikawa turns around to pout at him, feigning betrayal and shock as he accuses high school junior Iwaizumi Hajime (16) of “friendship treason.” Whatever that’s supposed to be.

“Iwa-chan! How come you never carry my bag for me too?”

“You can carry your own, dumbass!”

And every time Oikawa has a childish outburst at Iwaizumi, like this one, you snicker into your palm at his antics, the crow’s feet that engrave themselves into your skin turning into smile lines that lace the underside of your eyes, reminding him that even as the audience of Oikawa’s story, living vicariously through his conversations with you, and the smack on his arm that you mockingly give him, Iwaizumi is still inevitably tied to the plot through the strap of your bag hanging on his shoulder. His body, taller and stronger now, still lags behind the two of you by his deliberately slowed steps. This is Oikawa’s story, and if this is what you want, then he will simply watch it play out.

The walk always reaches your home first, to Iwaizumi’s relief. It is only then that he gets the opportunity to live in Oikawa’s shoes, when he walks towards you and eases the bag onto your doorstep. It is here that he can see you through his own eyes instead, noticing the little freckles from the sun that scatter across your cheeks, and the bits of dried skin on your lips that you gnaw off with your front teeth, and the blood that begins to seep through the raw wound where the skin came off. You look real, not like his fractured recollection of the strokes that make up your face. You’ve clawed your way out of Oikawa’s story into his own, and Iwaizumi etches something new into his mind every time he looks up from placing your bag down, patiently pleading to one day know more than just your face.

"Thanks for holding my bag again Iwa, get home safe, okay?"

Iwa. Oikawa's nickname is rubbing off onto you, and he thinks he can get used to this.

For the rest of the walk, Iwaizumi is inserted into Oikawa's story, like some surprise cameo. He readjusts his backpack, slinging both straps onto his shoulders, and Oikawa knudges his side with his elbows suggestively every time you leave.

"You can lie to them, Iwa-chan, but you can't lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

"Sure."

But Oikawa knows Iwaizumi is being unfair to himself, because he doesn't know the way his name slips out of your mouth into the conversations between you and Oikawa, more like a recurring character than a surprise cameo, hidden amongst every other line of dialogue in a script. He doesn't know that whenever the crow's feet begin to grow on your cheek, like whiskers on a cat, it's at the mention of his name, perhaps about something Iwaizumi said to Oikawa during training, or a new nickname he threw at him, the latest one being Hanger Bastard. He doesn't know that when the laughs begin erupting from your belly, Oikawa can hear Iwaizumi's name under your breath, choking out as you mumble to yourself, "Fuck, Iwa has to hear this, Iwa HAS to hear this,” just for Iwa to leave wordlessly after setting your bag down, before you can say anything to him.

One of these days, high school senior Iwaizumi Hajime (18) decides that he will do it. He will finally, after years of holding your bag, ask to hold your hand at graduation instead.

Until he overhears you and Oikawa talking as he walks out of the changing rooms, sweaty and sore from volleyball training, his bag hanging off one shoulder.

“Okay, let me do it,” you straighten your posture, looking up at Oikawa.

“Let’s go to grad formal together. Be my plus one.”

And he remembers, this is not his story. It was never his story to begin with, always Oikawa’s. Iwaizumi is only a cameo, an easter egg that’s there to hold you bag every chapter of the way, praying that you will see him lagging behind, waiting for the right time. His steps come to a halt, and the ground squeaks beneath his sneakers, the towel in his hand falling to the floor.

“Oh. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He snatches the towel off the ground, slinging the other strap of his bag on, and heads out of the gym, ripping his eyes away from staring through Oikawa’s, killing himself off in Oikawa’s story, and in your own. Iwaizumi’s character exits the setting of the gym, just a little too quickly to hear the rest of your conversation.

“Iwa-chan is a little shorter than me, so you’ll probably have a better time trying to reach him if you want.”

“Got it, are you sure I’ll be fine though?”

Oikawa knows this needs to happen. He sees that Iwaizumi has been waiting, his patience never running thin even after five years of holding your bag silently on walks home, dragging behind so Oikawa could have his chance at you instead. He has noticed the glances Iwaizumi takes at your face every time he sets your bag down at your doorstep, softer and gentler than the flipping of pages on a yellowing book, yearning to see more, feel more, know more. Oikawa never needed a chance with you, he never wanted it either, not when all you rambled on about was Iwaizumi’s new nicknames for him, or Iwaizumi’s play on the court, or how Iwaizumi would find some stupid video you saw hilarious, but you never had the chance to show him. The second strap going onto his shoulder is all Oikawa needs to be sure that Iwaizumi is tired of waiting. Which means you have to go, now.

“Go, go after him, now, he’s not too far yet. You got this.”

And so you sprint as quickly as your legs will take you. You run down to the school’s exit, and Iwaizumi is nowhere to be found. Your heart sinks at the possibility that he actually thought you were asking Oikawa to be your date, seeing that he departed the gym soundlessly. Your knees ache and every breath you huff in seems to bruise your lungs a little bit, and you have to stop and hunch over, hands pressed against your knees for stability. Your bag weighs on your shoulders, and you realise you have forgotten how it feels to walk with it on your back, books dragging you down like an anchor in the seabed. You slap your knees, it’s the next corner, and it’s about time you carried your own bag for once anyways.

Iwaizumi is staring at a bouquet of flowers that sits lifelessly on his desk in petals of red and stems of green, contemplating what to do with them, when he hears a knock at his front door.

“Hajime! Someone’s here for you!” His mother yells from downstairs, her words dragging on suggestively as he slumps down to the entrance. You stand at his doorstep, a palm sized journal in one hand and holding the doorframe with the other as your body leans into the wall, face flushed and lowered in exhaustion from the sprint you just took.

“Oh, hey, what are you doi-”

Your head jolts up to meet his eyes, and Oikawa is right. Iwaizumi is a little easier to reach. Your hand shoots out, the journal sticking out temptingly from your fingers. Iwaizumi still thinks this is Oikawa’s story, the one he chose to die in. Yet he takes the journal anyways, unhooking the elastic loop and opening it up.

“21/1- Saw a video of a cat spilling vermicelli everywhere, wanna show Iwa because he’d probably like it.”

“23/1- Chat when will Iwa talk to me on the walk home:(”

“27/1- Oikawa says I should just chat him up but I’m nervous???? what the fuck do i do???”

Lines upon lines of journal entries deck the pages of the book, and Iwaizumi can do nothing but read every single entry, a rush of blood flooding into his head.

“14/4- Iwa invited to me to vball training!! Wonder if i can keep going every day to watch him play…”

“15/4- Why does he go quiet when Oikawa is around:(”

He drops his arm, revealing your face behind the journal. His ears pulse at the sound of his heart in his throat.

“Iwa, let’s go to grad formal together. Wanna be my plus one?”

Shoving the book into your arms, his hand signals for you to stay, and he sprints upstairs, almost tripping over on the hardwood beneath his feet. The bouquet of flowers waits for him at his desk, more lively than ever, and he snatches it into his hand, before stumbling back down the stairs to you. He straightens himself at the door, his windpipe threatening to close.

“Sorry, the hoodie and the sweats aren’t really doing me justice right now.”

You stare at him, who scratches the back of his neck, a bouquet of roses wrapped in coffee stained newspapers in his hand. No, you think, the hoodie and sweats are doing him so much justice.

“I should’ve asked you a long time ago, probably back before junior formal dinner, or at freshman dance night, maybe even playground duty in middle school. Can I make it up to you, and ask you now?”

You nod, crow’s feet threatening to emerge from your cheeks, but you suppress them. Your mouth hangs ajar, not sure what to make of this situation.

“Can I have the honour of being yours?”

“Fuck yeah you can!”

Iwaizumi doesn’t spare a moment, before lifting you up by your underarms and pulling you into himself. From afar, Oikawa watches from his own house on the same block, grinning with pride. You giggle into his shoulder, arms around his neck. It sounds like the beginning of Iwaizumi’s story, maybe something even better than what he imagined.

“Now, do you want me to walk you home? I can take your bag for you.”

“Sure, Iwa.”

And walk you home he does, except he doesn’t hold the strap of your bag on his shoulder with his free hand anymore, finally linking you fingers with his own instead.

author's note:

HEYYYY I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS BB @catsoupki I started it the day you requested but i was so busy that i ended up getting WRITER'S BLOCK UM?? but i had this whole idea i was NOT about to let it get wasted because i couldn't think smh ANYWAYS

hope everyone else liked it too!! i love iwaizume hajime (27) athletic trainer and his hanger bastard too i guess... need someone to be walking out the door with your bags too

and here's the writing playlist!! feel free to add songs into it for me so i can find new artists and write with more inspo!!

anyways tags as usual:

@chuuya-brainrot @fiannee @starlysama @bailey-reeds

ok love u guys bye bye