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luffyszoo · 3 days ago

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i want soft dom reader with sanji. i just wanna call him pet names and give him compliments so he believes it for once, all while hes destroying my insides ofc

Sanji x Reader 🔞 (smutt with plot)

Part 1 Part 2 (wip)

A/N: HII i’m back! For some reason i have a lot of ideas for this fanfic. so i decided to split this into 2 parts. because it was already 19k words until i had to shorten it LMAO please note this is the first part. so things will start spurring up in part 2 which i already have a good chunk of it done, just please be patient! <3

word count: 16K

CW, this fic will contain nsfw mixed with angst… (also the use of “y/n” i try my best not to use it but i had to.)

Sanji’s back on the ship now. You and the Strawhats are heading to Wano. But something’s wrong with Sanji. He hides it well from the others, but it’s clear that you and Luffy can tell something’s off. He’s more distant. I mean, who can blame him? Having to go back to your abusive family after years of trying to forget the horrible things that happened to you? That’s a kind of pain you couldn’t even imagine.

But still it hurt you to see Sanji so depressed.

Once a cook who was happy and always ready for anything, he’s turned into someone who seems chained to the kitchen. Cooking being one of his coping mechanisms, of course he’ll give the crew random dishes, even though none of them asked for dinner yet…

“Thanks, Sanji!” the others will cheer, seeing the delicious plate in front of them. So many different dishes, ones that originated from all over. A lot of them looked rich, complicated, and honestly, it was kind of clear he was going through something. The harder the dish, the more his heart must have ached over what happened. He couldn’t stop thinking about the words his father spat at him before he left that island. Wounds he thought were healed, buried—just seemed to rip open again the moment he was forced to face the truth about his past.

“Useless.”

“Disgusting.”

Every time Sanji closed his eyes, all he could see were his brothers laughing at him. Bound in that cage. That damn metal helmet forced on his head. The hopelessness he felt when they said he was weaker than them. Not like he didn’t know that already. Of course he knew.

It’s all they ever said to him, every day, just to break him.

He was cooking all day. He’s tired. His hands feel kind of weak now. It’s like he’s made every dish you could possibly think of for his friends. The sink had a couple of plates, forks, butter knives in it. When he turned around, he saw the mess he made himself. Pots. Bigger spoons. Tools scattered everywhere. He sighed at the sight. Rolling up his sleeves, his hands moved numbly grabbing the sponge and soap. He picked up a plate and started scrubbing the leftover sauce or food that stuck to it. His mind was blank. He tried not to think of what happened. Because if he isn’t thinking about that, he’s thinking of nothing. His eyes were empty, just staring at the plate, his reflection faint in the center. His fingers shifted slightly with each new utensil he cleaned.

Once Sanji finished, it was time for a smoke break. The apron he wore was now off and hung on the wall by a hook.

Grabbing his pack of cigarettes, he opened it only to see one left.

Damn.

There’s no way he smoked that much, right?

He scratched the back of his head, trying to replay the day and count how many he actually had. Didn’t really help much.

But he knew that one cigarette wasn’t enough, not for the shitty few days he was having.

He sighed, taking the last one and stepping outside. The sun was just going down, a soft red and orange glow casting across his face—and the Thousand Sunny. Looking out at the water was… something he could stare at forever. The ocean matched the sky’s color. Sparkles of light danced on the surface, and down below, little fish swam close to the Sunny, as if they were following it. Gentle waves hit the bottom of the ship, making a soft whssp sound each time water met wood. He enjoyed the view. The weather was nice, too.

A soft but cold breeze brushed across his face, making his hair blow gently with the wind. From behind him, he could hear soft, slow familiar footsteps. But he couldn’t tell who it was He narrowed his eyes at the thought of having to talk to someone but he didn’t mind it, either.

God, these emotions he had were so mixed. Can’t he just be a normal fucking person—?

“Hey…”

voice was soft, followed with a casual small smile. You leaned gently on the railings of the ship, only your fingertips gripping the flat, white painted wood. You were nervous. You’d noticed Sanji’s behavior ever since you all left the island. The change in his energy. The way he’d isolate in the kitchen, pouring too much of himself into meals no one even asked for. You’d wanted to talk to him about it for so long, you had so many things you wanted to say. But now, standing beside him in the orange-pink light of the dying sun, your mind felt blank.

Nervousness? Definitely.But not because you were scared of Sanji’s reaction. It was more the fear that maybe, nothing you said would comfort him in the way he needed. Sanji wanted to seem like he was as happy as he could be. But he definitely didn’t have the energy to keep up the act he’d been putting on all day.

“Hey, Y/n,” he said, offering a seemingly genuine smile. “What brings you here?”

You saw through it immediately. That smile wasn’t real. And you were determined to get the truth out of him.

“Nothing,” you replied, trying to sound casual as possible. “Just noticed you here. Thought I’d say hi. You’ve been in the kitchen for a while, no? Cooking so many meals for us lately.” You fake-chuckled, pretending like the conversation hadn’t been rehearsed in your head over and over again. You knew how you wanted to start. The hard part would be seeing if you could keep up with him and his emotions, if he’d actually did open up.

Sanji snorted softly. “Well, yeah. Can’t leave my crewmates going unfed. What kind of cook would that make me?” He avoided eye contact. His gaze stayed fixed on the waves below. He started to lightly ruffle his hair with one hand—a habit you’d noticed before. You weren’t quite sure if he even realized he did it when he was nervous. Maybe it was just instinct. He ruffled it with the same hand holding his cigarette. The tip burned slowly down. A small pile of ash had formed on the railing in front of him, scattered where he kept flicking it without much thought.

“I suppose that’s true,” you murmured, resting a finger gently to your chin. “You sure you’re not going through something right now?” Your eyes narrowed slightly as you looked at him. He could feel it, that weight of your concern hovering over him like a shadow. He knew what you were trying to get at.

But he didn’t want to talk about it. Not really.

“Why would I be going through something?” he replied, shrugging a little as he flicked the cigarette again. Another bit of ash fell lazily down to the small pile. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to, he already knew you weren’t buying it.

“Well, that thing with your parents, and the wedding.” His face looked relaxed like you’d just brought up something as casual as the weather. Sanji exhaled a small stream of smoke. “Your point being?” He finally glanced at you. But it wasn’t full eye contact, his head stayed facing forward, his eyes just shifting halfway toward you. “As much as I love you for the fact that you care about me, and that you’re worrying… you’re overthinking this.” He turned his body a bit, finally facing you. His expression unreadable, tone still calm. Detached.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Yeah. Right.

Like you were gonna fall for that.

You crossed your arms, “Riiight…” you dragged out the word, especially the middle syllable, just to make it very clear you weren’t buying anything he was selling. “And I’m not supposed to believe those five-star meals are just you being a ‘good cook,’ huh?”

You finger-quoted that last part for emphasis.

Blunt? Yeah, maybe.

But pretending everything was okay wasn’t your style. Never has been. And honestly? You didn’t think it should be anyone’s. Watching Sanji throw himself into this exhausting act putting up smiles, serving meals like clockwork, burying his pain in butter and saffron, it was starting to wear on you.

It irritated you. Because you knew. You both knew. This wasn’t fine. And he hadn’t said a damn thing.

Not yet, at least.

His body flinched by your words, just barely. but you saw it. “What are you trying to say?”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Sanji?”

“No.”

His expression wasn’t angry. Just tired.

“I knew. Ever since the day after we left the island.” You added, voice softer but firmer now. “The dishes. The overly used smile you’ve been wearing all day. it doesn’t feel like you.”

He avoided your eyes again. That same move. That subtle withdrawal. You knew how hard it must be for him, someone so used to hiding pain behind charm to be confronted like this. But he’d left you no choice. What if no one ever talked to him about it? Leaving him to carry the weight he’d been dragging since Whole Cake Island? He would’ve drowned in it. And that thought alone made your chest ache. You didn’t even want to imagine what kind of dark place he would’ve ended up in, how much more depressed he might be by now if no one reached out. His jaw clenched a little. The cigarette burned too low for another drag, but he didn’t flick it away. Just held it there.

“I told you… I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly near the end.

You didn’t interrupt. You waited. Watched him as he seemed to wrestle with the words in his throat.

“I..” a big exhale from his mouth, making his chest move up, and down slowly. “I talked to Luffy,” he insisted. “We already had this conversation. I told him everything I needed to say. He understood. So, yeah—I’m fine now.”

He nodded like he was trying to convince himself more than you. But you could see it.

That was only half the truth. He did talk to Luffy. You could see the impact it had on him. But there was something he still hadn’t said out loud. Something still gnawing at him.

“So you talked to Luffy, and that magically made your problems go away?” you shot back, your tone sharper now. “That’s it? All better? Wow, I should just talk to Luffy about all of my problems if it’s so easy.”

Sanji stiffened.

“Why can’t you just accept the fact that I’m fine now?” finally looking at you “Can I not talk about my family? I’m getting irritated.” He snaps his head toward the ocean.

You took a step closer. You weren’t angry, not really. But the way he kept trying to brush everything under the rug like it didn’t matter, it was maddening.

“No, Sanji. I’m not looking for anything. I see it. In your face, in your hands, and face when you give out food. The way you can’t even finish a sentence about yourself without having to switch it to the other person.”

He turned his head sharply, jaw tightening again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The silence between you both felt heavy He looked away again. His voice came softer this time. Almost like a whisper. “I want to be okay…” he said. “I want to be okay. That talking with Luffy really did fix it. But..” His voice broke completely then, cracking in the middle like something inside finally gave way.

“But it didn’t.”

“It’s hot,” he exhaled through his mouth, pulling at his collar, his fingers shaking. “The heat is pissing me off… Why did it get so hot all of a sudden out here?!” But it hadn’t. The weather hadn’t changed. The breeze was still cool, the sunset still soft on both of your skins. He was overwhelmed. He didn’t want to say any of that. Words came out like they were pulled straight from the pit of his stomach. You could see it in his face, he was upset at himself for letting it slip. Furious that he has to feel this again for the same reason. His shoulders were tense, his hands trembling.

He still hadn’t looked at you again. “Sanji,” you said softly but firm enough to break through whatever storm he had spinning in his head. He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched again, his chest rising and falling too fast. You could hear how uneven his breathing had gotten, like he was stuck between wanting to talk and cry.

So you reached out, slowly pressing a hand to his chest. Right over his heart. His breath caught, it’s gotten just a little slower by your touch. You could feel it beneath your hand, his heartbeat, fast and uncontrollable… As you stood there, it started to slow down. And strangely, your own breath began to match his. Like your presence alone was helping him find steady ground again. That’s when you leaned in, arms sliding around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

Tucking your chin over his shoulder, wrapping your arms snug around his neck, your fingertips lightly brushing against his hair at the nape. The way you held him. You weren’t letting him slip through the cracks again. Sanji froze. Like the warmth of you against him stunned him more than anything else could’ve. Then slowly, awkwardly, his arms came up around your waist. His hands hesitated, hovering for a moment before they landed fully, fingertips flinching at every new place they touched, like he didn’t trust himself to hold you right. But eventually they settled.

He melted into your hug slowly, like it was something he didn’t realize he needed until his body gave in to it. The ship creaked faintly in the background, the distant waves and the sky. In this moment, everything else faded into a kind of quiet that pressed gently around you both. His chest rose and fell against yours fast at first, then easing.

“…Do you wanna talk about it?”

Your voice barely rose above the sea breeze. Like you were afraid too much volume might shatter the moment. There was a pause. Not stiff. Just long, Sanji was replaying what you said in his head. Did he really want to talk about it? If he did, would you see him as weak? With the time he had to think about it. He agreed, sighing deeply but slow of relief. “Yeah.” His voice cracked just a little. But there was no shame in it.

You pulled back gently, just enough to see his face, but you didn’t let go of him. His eyes didn’t meet yours, not yet. But his hand found yours as if on instinct. Fingers brushing, testing… then curling around yours with quiet need Hand in hand, you started walking across the deck, your footsteps light on the wood beneath you. Sanji led you toward his room. For the first time since these past few days, he finally had someone to be honest with.

The silence in Sanjis room was very bothersome, you both didn’t know where to start. During the silence, you examined his room. You’d been in Sanji’s room before. Dropped off spices he asked for, borrowed a deck of cards once. Stood awkwardly in the doorway while he scolded Luffy for sneaking snacks. So you knew how he usually kept it. Tidy, and practical. A little stylish without trying too hard.

But now? It wasn’t a mess. Not completely. But it wasn’t like him. The desk in the corner had two books stacked neatly, but another one sat open next to them pages creased, like he meant to finish the paragraph and never came back. A pen rolled to the edge, dangerously close to falling. His drawers weren’t closed all the way. One of them hung halfway open, and inside you could see clothes that looked like they’d been folded once and then shoved in quickly, half of them sticking out like he lost the energy halfway through.

Even his scent usually sharp and warm, like cloves with a mix of tobacco and the faintest trace of cologne. It felt duller in here. Lingering in the corners like it hadn’t been refreshed in a while.

“I thought…” he hesitated, breath catching and scratching his blonde wavy hair at the top of his head. “I thought if I just gave them what they wanted, if I let them use me, marry me off, then it would stop. All of it. And no one else would have to get dragged into it.”

He let out a shaky breath, brow furrowing.

“And I know it was stupid. I know that now. But back then?” He shook his head. “It made sense. Giving up on myself made sense.” You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed on Sanji jas be poured out his heart.

“I felt horrible,” he muttered. “For leaving. For not saying anything. For the way I looked at all of you when you showed up to bring me back.”rubbing at his jaw, eyes still on the floor like he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze, he can’t believe he’s really saying everything. His voice cracked again. “But instead I got put on blast. Everything, everything I ever tried to forget about myself, just thrown out in front of them. Nami, Brook, and Chopper…” His voice trailed off. He sucked in a breath, like it physically hurt to name them.

“I saw the way they looked at me,” he whispered. “Not in disgust. Not pity, either. Worse. It was shock. Like they couldn’t even imagine the version of me that came from such a family. And for a second, I hated that. I hated that they had to see it.” His hands curled tighter in his lap.

“I wanted to keep everyone safe. Leaving was the only way out, especially with the circumstances we were in. And then,” He scoffed suddenly.

“Luffy.” He spat the name with a frustrated smile tugging at his lips, like it made him feel pathetic just to say it aloud. “That idiot had to come find me.“ He shook his head, biting back the next sentence. “I still pushed him away. Hit him. Told him to go home.”

His voice dropped to a whisper again, low and splintered. “He stood there and took it. And then he waited. Didn’t leave. Didn’t fight back. Just said he wouldn’t eat unless it was from me.” There was a silence that stretched long between you. Sanji’s shoulders had sunk now, like the weight of it all had finally dropped fully onto him.

“…I don’t know if I deserve any of you,” he murmured, barely audible.

You let the silence sit for a moment, not out of hesitation, but to make sure you both heard what he just said. Every word. Every broken, twisted thought he’d turned into truth in his head.

“Don’t say that.”

His head lifted slightly. He didn’t look at you. Just the wall. The floor. Anything but your face.

“I mean it, Sanji. Don’t ever say that again.” You cupped the side of his face for you to meet eyes.

“You think what you did was wrong, and yeah, it was reckless. It hurt us. It hurt me. But you did what you thought you had to do to protect the people you love.” You shifted, turning your body more towards him, your knee brushing his. His hands were still clenched in his lap. You reached for his hand, carefully. Your fingers brushing his knuckles first, then curling gently around them.

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve us.”He looked at you now. His eyes were wet, his jaw tense. “You’re not some burden we’re dragging behind us, Sanji,” you whispered. “You’re… you, You don’t understand just how enough that is.”

Rubbing your thumb slowly along his hand. “I missed you.” your face burned up a bit. “I was so worried about you. I missed you because this ship doesn’t feel the same without you, I loved waking up to your scent of love. walking through the halls smelling like smoked goods and burning toast in the mornings.”That got the smallest, most cracked half-laugh out of him. You looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him.

“So yeah. You messed up. You’re not perfect. But none of us are. And if you ever say again that you don’t deserve us, or me, I’m gonna get Nami in here.” That made him laugh more, a little more louder than before. His shoulders loosened just a bit.

“Okay?” softly giggling softly. He nodded. Slowly. His hand gripped yours tighter

“…Okay.”

#x reader #one piece #sanji x you #sanji smut #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #op sanji #love sanji #one piece sanji #sanji #black leg sanji #fanfic #fiction #op fic #part 1/2

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sharieb · 1 day ago

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Can I request headcanons where Lads men reacting to Non MC Reader telling him how shocked you are that he even noticed you because you're practically invisible your entire life unlike MC who shines bright please? - 🌕 anon

In the Glow of Someone Else, but Not Invisible to Me

Pairing: LADs x non-MC reader

Genre: Fluff, slight hurt/comfort Content warning: low self-esteem, insecurity, more comfort than hurt, really.

🐦‍⬛ Sylus

You’re helping him tune his bike in the back garage, grease on your palms, sweat sticking your shirt to your back. MC had just left. She’d wandered in to say hi, which led to them rambling about some absurd mission last week

Soon she left, and behind some snacks, and gotten three grunts of approval and one rare laugh from the "mechanic" in under five minutes. Soon you sighed. “She always lights up a place,”

You murmured to no one, wiping your hands. “I… just kind of disappear behind her.”

The arc torch clicked off. Sylus slid out from under the vehicle, grease across his jaw, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in laser-focused precision.

"You serious?"

You nod, avoiding his gaze.

"She’s a star. I’m just... not."

He clicks his tongue, then smirks. But there's an unusual softness in his expression. “Funny. You really think I wouldn’t notice the person who runs my entire backup route? The same person I’ve been stuck trying not to stare at you for weeks?"

You blinked. “She’s a spark plug and she shines, sure. But you? You’re the fuse box holding the whole damn system together. You glow in ways people don’t expect. I like that.”

He wipes his hands, tosses the cloth over his shoulder, flicks a finger at your nose the moment he steps closer, tilting his head. “She’s the noise. You’re the echo that stays.”

And with that, he taps the side of your comm-link with a finger, a smug grin creeping in. “Besides, I’m not the type to get distracted by glitter when I’ve got my eyes locked on gold.” "So don’t go calling yourself invisible, alright? Not when I’ve got bruises from walking into walls watching you."

❄️Zayne

The med bay was calm. Too calm. You were restocking, and he was sorting patient files. Then MC had popped in to drop off tea and sweets for me and Zayne, and somehow left with a few of the hospital staff who were present at the time, complimenting her on her smile, her outfit, her aura.

You said it without even turning around. “Everyone always remembers her. I used to think no one noticed me,”

You say softly, eyes glued to the tablet.

Zayne pauses. His pen hovers mid-note as he turns slightly. “You mean MC?”

You nod. “She’s luminous. People see her. I’m just... in the background and could vanish from this place, and no one would notice.”

You didn’t expect him to respond, but he put the pen down and did anyway. “I would notice. I also don’t think the background is any less important."

You pause mid-step, turn your body to him, but still haven't looked up. “You don’t have to say that.”

He walks over, carefully. No drama. Just presence. “I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he says softly. “And I notice a lot of things that go unspoken here.”

You finally meet his eyes. They’re warm, unwavering. “You remember the nurse who always folds the gauze the wrong way. You remember who hasn’t eaten. You always refill my pen. And... You’re the person I look for in a crowded hall. Not her.”

Your lips twitch into a shy smile.

His voice is barely above a whisper now. "You’re the quiet I trust, and the things you do... they last.”

He hesitates, then takes your hand, not like a grand gesture, but like an anchor. “So, no. You don’t disappear. Not to me.”

And somehow, his words and gestures were warmer than any spotlight.

✨ Xavier

You’re curled on the couch in his apartment, sorting everything that you need for your sleepover with Xavier. MC had just called in; you could hear her through the comm. She was lively, teasing, and even made Xavier laugh, something rare and quiet.

After he hung up, you fiddled with a throw pillow and said softly, “Do you ever feel like some people just... shine more than others?”

He hummed as he sat down on the couch and began looking for a good movie to watch. “Depends on what kind of light you’re talking about.” “I meant MC,”

You whisper. You plopped down onto the couch next to him and hugged the pillow to your chest. “She’s always glowing. I know she doesn’t mean to… but she really is the centre of attention wherever she goes. I’ve always been... beside her, like a blip on the edge of her orbit. Not someone who people would remember.”

Xavier stilled, his hands holding onto the TV remote, midway in his movie search, which he used to turn off the TV. Suddenly, the room is still. “You’re not a blip. You’ve always been the one I look for,”

He said, quietly but with certainty, as he turned his body slightly to look at you.

You shrug, brushing it off. “She’s a sun. I get it. She shines.” “She does,”

He agrees as he rests his head on your shoulder and closes his eyes for a brief moment. “But not all light is meant to be blinding.”

You turned your head a little to look at him, surprised by how serious he’s gone. “Stars can’t shine without the darkness between them. And sometimes… the ones we rely on most are the quietest ones.”

He reaches over to hand you a folded constellation. It’s the one he showed you months ago, the one he said reminded him of you. “I never watch the sky just for the brightest thing,” he says. “I watch it for the one I’d miss if it went out.” “I noticed you the first time we met. And I haven’t stopped.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but his ears are pink.

That kind of honesty doesn’t need a spotlight. It glows in the dark.

🎨 Rafayel

You were in the middle of sorting out some pigments while Rafayel flipped through thumbnails on his holo-tablet. MC had just stopped by with coffee for both of you, chatted for ten minutes, and left with his entire group of departing art class participants, which Thomas forced him to have earlier, singing her praises.

You stared down at a smear of yellow ochre on your fingers, unsure why the words bubbled up. “I think I used to believe... no one saw me.”

He doesn’t look up. “Hmmm?” “Not when she was around. MC’s always been the type everyone sees. She always belongs in every spotlight. It just… fits her. I’m... quieter... like I’m made of backstage dust.”

He looked up, set his holo-tablet, and turned fully to you. “Oh, darling,”

He murmured, tone suddenly serious. “You think that matters to me?��

He stepped closer and took hold of your hand, tapping his finger against yours where the paint clung. "Have I ever told you why I keep painting the same silhouette in every crowd piece?"

You blink at him, confused. "No?" "Because it’s you."

His eyes shine, serious now. “You’re the colour I can’t stop reaching for. The one no one else realises is carrying the whole palette.”

You bite your lip, throat catching.

He smiles. Not his usual teasing grin, but something gentle. Devoted. “She glows. Yes. But you? You haunt the canvas. You linger in the shadows, I choose to paint.”

You swallow hard. “So I’m... background?” “No,”

He says, brushing a smudge off your cheek that you did realise was there. “You’re the underpainting. The structure. The warmth beneath the gold leaf.”

He’s not joking now. His tone is reverent, soft. “I could lose myself staring at her. But I’d find myself drawing you.” “You weren’t invisible. You were rare.”

🍎Caleb

You’d just returned from a routine training debrief. You're folding reports together in the command centre. Caleb's focused on a data stream, brow furrowed in concentration. The silence between you is companionable.

MC had just come for a brief visit, walked out beside the Admiral, casually charming half the flight deck with a bright joke. Everyone laughed. Even Caleb’s stern second-in-command cracked a grin.

You don't mean to say it aloud. But the words came out like air escaping a cracked hull. "I don't get why you'd ever notice someone like me. I've always felt... invisible."

He turns his head slowly. The screen glows blue across his cheekbone. "What did you say?"

You clear your throat, embarrassed now. "Sorry. I didn't mean to drop that on you. Just thinking out loud. I don’t know how she does it, but MC's always had that kind of light that makes people notice her. Always. "I never had that, like I could walk across this whole damn deck and no one would even blink.”

Caleb didn’t respond right away. He set the tablet down with calm finality before he finally turned and walked over to you. His voice was quiet. “You weren’t trying to be seen.”

You glance away, a bit defensive. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be.”

There’s a long pause. Then he gently shifts in front of you, blocking the panel light so his eyes find yours in the dim. "You think light makes someone worthy of attention? Visibility doesn’t mean value,” His voice is low, a little rough around the edges. “I see you. I always notice what matters. That’s why I noticed you. Just because the world is louder around her doesn’t make your presence any less solid.”

He reaches out — not for your hand, but to use his thumb to brush the edge of your wrist, like grounding your pulse to steady his. “You’re not invisible. Just... steady. Like gravity. Always there when I look, and when I look for someone to rely on? It’s not the loudest name I call.”

#love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #lad x non mc #lads x non mc #xavier x non mc! reader #zayne x non mc! reader #sylus x non! mc reader #caleb x non mc! reader #rafayel x non! mc reader #non mc reader

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werezmastarbucks · 12 hours ago

Text

U N17

U N7 masterlist 12/14

word count: 7708

music: life goes on by agust d

warnings: stalker stalking, violence, Yoongi's pov present. how y/n goes about handling a stalker is the WRONG way bc she's delulu

author's note: enter deus ex machina. if anybody knows how to write it avoiding the trope, hit me (with a shovel)

you don't wear the green tea perfume anymore; switched to something sweeter, fruitier and bolder. you like expensive perfumes that last on you, so that you can sense them yourself; otherwise, what's the point? Yoongi doesn't seem to be smelling different these days, at least not the last few times you've seen him. it's the same home-yanking woody citrus smell. he is very steady.

you leave the window open checking if the mosquito net is stuck tightly. the late June air is so sweet it makes your heart want to sing. Yoongi and Jungkook think alike, sending you messages at the same time. but they are of very different nature. you haven't seen him since May and don't have the impulse, the stay in Seoul was overwhelming and uncomfortable. the sex hit too close to home, and you even got a nasty feeling like he was crumbling a little. every time the train crosses the fine narrow line at the border of Busan, it's like a mechanic voice in your head says,

you're safe now. you're in the safety zone.

and all Seoul troubles fade away. you're strong. you're responsible for your life. you don't need anyone. the light is soft and mellow, sun is shining at the right angle, and the green streets lined up with fruit trees welcome you home. this is you. a hundred years of exhaustion and heartache slip off of you and leak down the drain taking the nightmares with it. all is well and if this was a book ending, it would be short and sweet. all is well in Busan, no zombie apocalypse for now, days long and sunny in the summer, seagulls yelling in the skies and people walk the streets smiling, breezy, their kerchiefs flying away slowly in the wind from the strait.

so no, you don't want to see him. you don't want the darkness that he brings to your mind nowadays. don't want to engage in the exhausting business of trying to find the balance between loving him and coming undone at the seams. you don't want the burden. he is too pretty to look at without getting tired. because he is the closed chapter that you lost the key to. he is the chapter that never belonged to you and yet you are burdened by the weight of a finished relationship that never transpired.

Jungkook says that something big's about to go down. your hands start sweating. it's been in the air for a while.

you pour yourself some lemonade and look around your shoulder at the pear trees outside. they stand in the glimmering evening mist like a picture from a book of tales. you think you're going to be okay now.

you turn on the live where Jungkook is sitting with his hair in the knot on the back of his head and counting until ten.

"you gotta hurry", he laughs, "let's make it ten million before i say ten. run, beautiful, you gotta run".

he is having a lot of fun lately in his fan interactions. he has always been confident and funny, but these days it's like nothing can hurt him. it's a dangerous notion, bordering a delusion, but he has this foundation under him. without having his experiences, you have no idea what it feels like to be this invincible. you think ten million in ten seconds is a bit of a stretch even for him, and he only makes four and pouts, chuckles, embarrassed. people keep coming. he begins with the usual muttering about nothing.

"kind of forgetting how i used to do this thing".

his eyes are reading comments attentively. they are opaque black with the lack of light.

"what i've been doing? this is what i wanted to talk to you about".

he stretches, then rubs his face, the smile not leaving his lips. he is nervous. still has time to change his mind. you are worried, too, but you have natural paranoia that's been riding you all your life, so you usually try not to overpress people with your concerns.

he talks a little more, comments on others' projects, yaps about the city and Jimin, gets distracted, zones out, giggles, goes to pour himself some alcohol. "Yoongi hyung doesn't drink anymore", he cheers the air. you are surprised. people still keep coming, the chat is as usual, a running waterfall of words.

"this is very important to me", he gets serious, "i want to tell you guys because you are my closest people. i know you understand what i mean", he's all business, as serious as he is with the people in his life. Jungkook is very sincere about the fans and always means what he says. in turn, they respect him and fight for him. it's unlike Yoongi who treats them a little like children. a little like loony siblings.

"i think you get that i am not just a boy from Busan anymore. by the way", he gets very close to the screen, making his funny face, brows together, as he checks the viewers.

"anyway, we have been talking with the hyungs about it for the longest time, and we all see how grown we are now, we're like, adults. i actually have been an adult for a while, and our dynamic is a bit different..."

his eyes get concerned as they move quickly, reading.

"we're not disbanding!" he cries out, "we're not disbanding. just... don't jump to conclusions. we're not disbanding. we will be together for a long time. but..."

he sighs, clearly not knowing how to put it. how do you tell that? twenty million people are catching his every word on live. now, twenty-two. he has broken his own record from back when he was even more famous than now. life getting quieter your ass. you realize you're not breathing like he's about to jump off the cliff.

"well, anyway, two years ago my son was born", he just says, simply. and goes quiet for a second, pressing his lips closed too late. there's still a smile in his eyes, a happy smile that is there when he is sharing something important.

"and i am so in love with him. i have a family. my son's name is Taeyang. i want you guys to call him Tae like we do", he bursts in chuckle. the chat becomes the volcanic vent. messages come so quickly it starts glitching and eventually breaks down.

"oh".

his phone buzzes. your shaking hand is lying on the table as you watch him intently.

"oh, my English teacher has texted", his face lights up in a smile. "Kookie Pookie, you're doing great".

he facepalms at himself at reading it out loud.

"oh, wait, you were never my English teacher".

he is having a bit of a breakdown, giggling, his head deep in his hand. his body is shaking with laughter. once the chat is fixed, it's full of pink and purple hearts.

this sends ripples over the internet. half of the world at least is shaken to its core. Taeyang is a June baby, a Gemini. Jungkook tells the fans about it the next day after his second birthday. and it creates a chasm between the past and now. someone leaves. for months, it's unreal being on the internet. some people are having meltdowns, others have parties. all in all, it goes better than expected. for bts, it means a completely new chapter. they have been free for a while now. ever since Hybe started needing them more than they, it, they have been slowly breaking down the stigmas. at first their clawing for the success was desperate and unrelenting. now their journey to independence has been slow, methodical and calculated. a little money on the side here and there, collaborations with artists from other studios, a little bit of disobedience to test the waters, middle fingers from the stage. the stronger ones were in the avant-garde and the others perching them up in the backs. stronger ones meaning Yoongi, Jungkook and Taehyung. now they are the first ones to relax and finally start enjoying their lives the way they want. buying houses with their own money. changing hair the way they want to. date people. you hear Taehyung has a permanent boyfriend he's been dating for almost a year. and yes, he does look a little like Jungkook, but he's way more feisty.

Jungkook is the impatient one when it comes to the parasocial aspect of it. he wants people to accept it and move on. he wants to not lose them over this, and the real ones don't get lost. that's all he cares about. he doesn't show Yuri or Taeyang but only mentions his name, and that's enough to breathe a little deeper. life hasn't been as beautiful for him as it is now, and that is considering he has always thought he was lucky. long story short, Jungkook is very happy. he feels fulfillment. and he definitely doesn't regret grabbing you by the hips on a rainy night in Prague almost ten years ago. he must think of that night a lot. you know you do. you feel connected to him like he is your biological brother.

Yoongi keeps the iced Americano between his knees and removes it as soon as the glass starts warming up. sunglasses keep the hair away from his eyes as he balances things in his hands: bag, coffee, cap, his phone. he checks the calendar and his eyes scan for the empty spots. no need for more than five hours. he's getting restless. summer has been making him jumpy. plane takes only one hour, he can be done in another three hours and drive to the airport and be back in Seoul by three in the morning. he doesn't usually text hi or what's up, just sends the info like you're a colleague:

"29th Friday, 1st of July, 7th of July, 15th of July".

he gets an almost immediate reply. looks at the watch: Jungkook has started his live. by the time he gets out of this car at the store, the world will be a little different for them all. he will probably be met by the long, screaming faces. demanding: and you???

"i'm busy". "i can move things around". "don't".

he must have fucked up by being alive again. sometimes you look at him like you wish he were dead. not in a mean way, but in a regretful way. that's new, and it's a bad sign.

the car trudges down the wide street and he can see the store doors open for him. people neatly lined up behind the purple ribbons stretched up to the entrance. he throws the cap aside and ruffles and grooms his hair to an agreeable shape. he would have cut it all off but he knows you like it this way. so, it's simple.

"you're busy all four evenings?" "yes". "why?" "because i'm fucking busy".

he leaves the car and puts his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. slides the glasses down onto his face and the smile plasters itself, working for him. you might never love him again and he needs to come to terms with it. he has to accept - he is waving his hand shyly, as usual, turning right and left, pauses for a second, bows to them - that this might be the end.

as the space around him warps, reforming itself into a new era of bts, his most precious asset, he is getting used to the reality that, he thinks, you must have lived with already. being rejected stings in a new way, not because he's never been rejected before. of course he was. he was rejected in ways that are intricately cruel, by Riko. Riko, Riko. he needs to stop thinking about her. he hears she's getting married for the third time; outran him there, too. she is an old crust that doesn't bother him anymore, a life lesson in being too kind. he has to go on live streams and say that no, he is single now. there's no one occupying his mind. Jungkook's exodus has set the new rules and the new intimacy for them and the fandom. like a rock cascade, Jimin and Namjoon come out about being in relationships as well, and now they have two new lines: taken and single. it's messier than people think. Jin is pathologically not capable to be in a relationship; he is having too much fun with his life and career, and keeps talking about the fruits. he likes to be admired and nobody can admire him well enough. Taehyung is actually taken but isn't ready to go into details of his life. Hoseok is a gentleman fuckboy enjoying his persistent youth. Yoongi is clinically unavailable, cursed. he doesn't text you anymore and you don't text him and he is trying to draw the lines around him limiting his new environment. he knows life goes on even in radio silence.

until all shit storm of circumstances comes together: on a July day, he has to go back to Daegu because his mother's cousin is dead and Holly is sick; expecting the call from the vet, he keeps the phone on sound, and that's why he doesn't miss a message from you when it lights up on the screen. a call, after weeks of absence, in the sea of dry notifications:

"i need you".

this is how quickly it changes. despair replaces hope, then hope overtakes, it must be a draining existence. he is pondering for several seconds, his eyes targeting the words, until, in the next message you send him something that doesn't sound so simple anymore: a geolocation link.

you're getting your evening portion of lemonade. can't do anything about it, for the last year you've been living a lemonade life. bubble teas and coffee are in the past and now it's the citrus era. it's so nice to walk a couple of kilometers from the designated coffeeshop on a late July evening when the sun simply refuses to set down.

the evening crowd is getting more and more evened out, rare couples are having dates at the tables by the windows, and the rest leaves. you wait in line as usual, music in your airpods, picturing how your night is going to unfold: you want a movie, a bath, to sit by the windows and look at the pear trees like they are your pets. the cat is probably walking around the garden right now, he really likes being outside in the summer and sometimes he even leaves for a couple of days. but he always comes back.

always comes back.

you notice the eyes watching you from the end of the line, and don't hold the contact for too long out of habit. but then your brain slowly puts the pieces together, like it starts clicking. it's happening gradually, taking you on the road of past memories where small and insignificant interactions now make more sense.

Kim Seongjun, you now remember. the last time at Hybe, about a month and a half ago, he looked pretty let down when you said you don't recall his name. you found this reaction peculiar. you must have seen him two or three times. but you were wrong.

the guy who you always bumped into in the corridor on the way to a lesson.

the guy who almost always went to the gym at ten in the evening, always third wheeling there. the sound designer, your brain always said. working out quietly by the wall.

the guy who helped you hang up the congratulations poster on the wall of Hobi's studio when they returned from America with a Grammy. heavy breathing at your shoulder.

they guy who kept noticing you although you didn't notice him, distracted by others. by Yoongi. too distracted to see that he's always there, at the lunch time, when you were leaving, in the foyer. you even rode in the elevator once.

Kim Seongjun. sounding so similar to Jin's full name, but he can't be further away from him. high shoulders like a bull's, thick eyebrows and ears placed on uneven level on the sides of his head. he stopped you at the corridor at Hybe in May. he said, oh, y/n, haven't seen you in a while! his smile died as soon as your face turned into an akward expression. you felt a little guilty, now you understand why. he saw you but you didn't see him. he smelt you once. he knows where you used to rent an apartment.

you turn again to make absolutely sure it's him. yes. the same expressive round eyes, like a squirrel's. looking at you from under the cap intently, not the way strangers peek at each other at a coffeeshop. he's keeping the eye contact, so you raise your brow to let him know it's a problem, then you make your order.

he lingers at the end of the queue, letting people through before him, and turns his head to follow your movement as you walk away from the register. he isn't really going to order anything. you see the last light throwing the dark sunrays on top of the roofs across the street. now is the hour of sunset. in five minutes, the streets will become bleak. you sit by the wall, claiming one of the many unoccupied tables and take out your phone.

you can call the police, but there's nothing to tell them. i think my ex-colleague, who i am suddenly realizing just now might be my long-time part-time stalker, has followed me to Busan. yeah that's him, his offense is that he wants to lick my pussy and take me on a date.

you consider people around as well but something stops you. while the brain is thinking, the hand actually already knows. there's no moment of hesitation as you open a chat and text Yoongi. you keep yourself casual, don't rush your movements, keep your head high to be able to see his blurry silhouette at the register. he turns around and pretends to study the menu screen. you cross your legs, sip a little of lemonade. he isn't leaving but isn't approaching either. he is the ink spot against the colorful interior.

"i need you".

you send him your location. it's a strange formulation but you don't feel like screaming help. nothing's happened yet. your paranoia has been your friend and your enemy. your mind is completely not okay in general and you don't always trust yourself. most importantly, the memories kick in. of discomfort and irritation, of vague fear when you found a bunch of flowers right at the door of your apartment. he's only left you messages three times and there was no way to take it seriously. boss definitely didn't.

maybe it's a coincidence. maybe he just looks a lot like Kim Seongjun. but why is he staring again then? you hope your face is not flushed.

as the memories of that time kick in, so does the habit of searching comfort in Yoongi even when he himself isn't aware of it. Seongjun was there actually, while Yoongi was training you the ways to fight him. it's comical. he must have even heard your conversations about him.

"i think it's Kim Seongjun the sound designer. you remember him?"

Yoongi is taking it slow although you see the messages are being read.

with how the messengers are built nowadays you even see him leave the chat for a minute. he must go to the Hybe app for employees and look for him. Yoongi understands everything without extra explanations.

he doesn't say anything snappy, he isn't sore or sulking.

"you're sure?" "55% sure".

you have no idea what you actually want him to do here. it's not like he's going to...

"stay there. i'll be there in 30 minutes". "??" "i'm at my parents' house".

seems impossible. Daegu is a hundred kilometers away. then he adds,

"do NOT provoke him"

if anyone in the world knows how badly you want to punch someone in the face at least once in your life, it's Yoongi the boxing instructor.

you look at the time on your phone and start counting. still trying to keep your face looking like you're scrolling instagram. if that isn't a sign from above, you don't know anymore. it's seventeenth of July, he's been somewhere around two days ago, so what's happening now? it's like shooting blind and accidentally striking the bullseye.

he is approaching now and you act normal because you never know what people actually want.

it's definitely Kim Seongjun though; he's wearing the same shirt as in May and the same buzzcut with shades on the sides. keeps sharp sideburns that make him look like an anime character. you stare because he simply sits himself down at your table.

"remember me now?"

you're silent. the indignation rises in you and you have to clutch your phone, begging yourself not to explode right here. he scartches his temple with the dry working finger. hands unmoisturized, not elegant and with sweet pink knuckles destined for a piano. your own knuckles recall the familiar awesome pain of the heavy punching bag. even if he is a little late, you promise yourself to get a piece of this jerk tonight.

"Seongjun, isn't it?" you ask, cautious. you pretend, only half-way, to be surprised.

"took you long enough to memorize my name", he mutters. looks like he's feeling the eyes of the whole coffeeshop on him. also paranoid. great soil for going crazy. you don't like the hostility and heat in his eyes.

"well, you did scold me last month, so now i remember".

he nods. staring into you intently. his eyes slip down to the phone in your hand and you loosen your clutch.

"Seoul is far away from here".

"yeah, so?"

he raises his eyes to you. there's no doubt about it now.

"you think i can't stand up for myself?"

Seongjun scratches his neck slowly. either he's lost his job or sound designers don't have to see coworkers because he has this bristle on his neck going up to his chin. dark, spotty like he has tried shaving and gave up. a person in a state of mental distress, you realize slowly. suddenly, the coffeeshop doesn't seem so safe anymore.

you look at your phone. it's been five minutes. there are plenty of ways to keep him away. you could simply press the emergency and the siren will shatter even the windows in this place. the street is getting grey outside, marine birds flying low above the ground.

"i don't want to hurt you. but you piss me off so bad".

you're taken aback.

"do you even know my last name?"

he pierces you with his dark, unfriendly eyes. the kind of glance men used to give you back when they were boys and you pissed off everybody. you used to like to piss the boys off because they are usually stupid. grown men are way less irritating, they don't provoke and don't say silly smug shit - at least the men you actively choose to be in your life.

you realise that you have so few friends, and absolutely nobody in Busan. that your only best friend is Yuri and you don't know if you can still count Jimin as your number two, because you are not his number two anymore, and fairly so. somehow every Bangtan boy, once you leave his life, gets better. Taehyung gets himself into a stable relationship with the right gender, Jungkook becomes a father, and Jiminie follows. Hoseok only got richer these last two years and Jin simply got even more attractive, forgetting that people are supposed to age. Namjoon seems happier than ever without worrying about you all the time. and Yoongi is the only one who is a mystery to you. maybe he is the only one who feels your absence.

meanwhile Seongjun pronounces your last name, your birth date and your Seoul address, and then hits you by reciting your Busan address, too. you have no idea how long he's been here. whether he's looked into the windows of your apartment. you lean over the table. the time is crawling slowly. it feels like it has stopped.

"and what exactly did i do, may i ask, to anger you so bad?"

he meets your gaze bravely, eyes open only half-way. there's black circles beneath, he's chewing on his lips and looking at your mouth as he says,

"think you can do much better than me? been ignoring me forever".

"you should've been more intense", you hiss, not without a twisted joke in your words.

"i've been there and you never noticed me".

now he wants to get romantic. you throw yourself back on the chair. Yoongi isn't writing anything else, the phone is dead silent.

"oh, i know how it feels, believe me", you feel jaded. almost sorry for this awkward guy. he's massaging his hands on the table.

"yeah, pretty pathetic. but now we..." his eyes get glassy like he suddenly feels the pills kick in. "both are free, right?"

your brows shoot up.

"i've always been free".

"no", he says simply. like this piece of idiot is now going to be careful with his words to you, offer you the chance at dignity by not stating what he noticed while watching you for how many years?

"four years you worked there".

"i thought it was longer. what took you so long? could've come here and chop me in pieces a while ago", you poke him, then continue sipping your lemonade.

Seongjun shifts in his place.

"you're not the center of the universe".

your hand lies on the table.

"wait, you're telling me i am not even my own stalker's first choice?"

he gets flustered. angry. his brows crawl down to hood his eyes. square jaw gets tense. he didn't like that word. you feel the adrenaline kick you in the head stronger than a shot of vodka would now. you can't stop yourself.

"you're telling me you've been cheating on me with other girls?"

his nostrils flare.

"why aren't you responding to me?"

Seongjun's voice gets down an octave, resembling a rumble. a very different rumble, brutal, with less nuance. he is way too manly. he is way to big for you... you notice this too late. he's a big dude. used to measure people in Jungkooks, he has about 0,9 Jungkooks in him. he doesn't have the strength in his back though, slouching. his neck is exposed nicely. you know you're taking too much upon yourself but there's nothing else to do. it's been twelve minutes.

"don't call me that".

"call you what? a stalker?"

the corner of your mouth twitches.

"what else do you call a guy who leaves pathetic messages on the whiteboard and sends flowers saying he wants to lick my pussy?"

he knows you're mocking him. even his stupid face takes the expression of confusion. like he's saying, are you dumb? you won't even call for help?

he has no idea you have the unhinged inside of you, that's been waiting for its turn your whole life. every girl has that. not every girl is unlucky enough to get a chance to let it loose.

he takes a deep sigh like he is finding his patience.

"let's get to a clean slate".

"oh?"

he nods.

"you won't even choke me or anything?"

Seongjun is taken aback.

"why... why would i choke you?"

"um, because that's what stalkers usually do in movies", you finish you lemonade in one big gulp. the ice clinks inside.

Seongjun chuckles, dropping his chin down.

"i did want to hurt you before. do awful things to you. you were so arrogant".

you literally used to sing little songs to people at Hybe when you were in a good mood. and crash into closed doors. for some reason you hate it when people get the wrong impression of you. it makes you grit your teeth not to let a whole lecture come out of your mouth.

"but i am a better person now".

"honestly you look worse than before".

his eyes rise again. it's a rollercoaster. you don't know what you're doing. the frustration that you felt back then is coming back. the audacity to treat you like a sex object, immature pickup lines circling around, only one thing bothering his imagination. and the tone of voice, like he knows you.

"what? see, i remember you. i remember you used to go to gym with us".

"with you".

"with us, that's what i said".

he crashes his fist on the table, and the glass clinks again. a couple smooching over at the window turns to you and looks. you nod at them and motion to Seongjun.

"crazy stalker".

maybe they will-

the hit comes so quickly the world tilts upside down in a fraction of a second. see, that's the problem, if you do stupid shit, you get hit with a table.

for a moment, you can't breathe. a girl shrieks shortly somewhere; it's bells in your head. you have to come round quickly, your brain is on high alert, so your hands start getting you up before the vision returns. the head hums like a metal tube once and starts working again. face is burning. it's like getting out of bath and cracking your skull all over again.

the sling bag heaved up high on your chest actually saved your nose, pushed onto the table like a tit, and not letting you hit it all the way. instead, you feel the burning cut on your forehead, whether it's actual of perceived. blood is trickling down. suddenly, it's a whole different genre of a scene. your eyes open wide as you jump onto the table. instead of fear, rage kicks in. life has fucked you enough. Yoongi always told you to run away from the fight. to keep your head low. that you need to be smart, not hard. but guess all his advice got punched out of your head because you've had enough with these Korean men. hierarchical, patriarchal, smug, dismissive, condescending. you put your knee on the table and launch yourself at Seongjun who is more than ready for you. the cashier is a small girl, not bigger than you, who is hiding behind the register. the guy who is still in the coffeeshop by this time, together with his girlfriend, is a typical local: doesn't get involved. most people don't. they are too scared to get hit with a lawsuit should the fight be happening between spouses.

Seongjun, instead of catching you, pushes you away and then, as you fall on the floor from the table, laughs, grabbing your neck. but now there's finally a window for action: you're at his feet. you punch him in the nuts as hard as you can and, once his hand drops, you get yourself up and start running. phone is left on the table.

"call the police!" the girl by the window screams at her boyfriend. you sway from side to side, the blow on the head still clutching you violently. push the door and yank yourself into the empty, dark street. this is the household district and all action is happening at the center of the city. this is why you like this coffeeshop. there's nobody here at this time.

step by step, the blood is loud in your ears, adrenaline shaking the eyeballs, only keeping you dizzy instead of giving you energy to run. Seongjun is right behind you, slamming the door shut and following you.

sometimes running away seems hard. you run away often. metaphorically mostly. maybe you should've invested into running on the treadmill instead of just walking at the elevation. your feet carry you as best as they can, but Seongjun doesn't have a concussion so he can walk a straight line. the blood is sipping into your eyes and drops from the tip of the nose. his hand on your shoulder, pushing you aside and banging you into the metal surfacing of the shop closed for the night. your foot gives out and the ankle twists, knee bending onto the asphalt and of course catching your body from falling face down, but it scrapes the skin badly. it's like he is not a real human but a scripted villain; but then again you are not surprised because cheesy villains always have the real life prototypes.

it's getting pretty sticky, you think. the street is quiet and beautiful, the lights already lit and giving the illumination to the purple wisteria trees on the sides. you don't wanna die here. you shake your head, hands on the ground, as you steady yourself. Seongjun's hand is on the back of your neck possessively, and your nasty character kicks in again. one thing you probably value more than your life is your pride. it's an unpleasant and persistent instict that always complicates things when they need to be simple. nobody has the right to grab you by the neck unless you want them to. your arm flies up to grab him, but he slaps it away, and you play submissive for a moment, trying to open a window for escape. you can hear him breathe heavily, like he did during the waiting at the Grammy party. seems like you should've known, but it's an illusion of retrospective. you can taste the asphalt even though your face is not on the ground; thick, sweet and salty air of Busan summer is making you stronger, keeping you in an adequate mood, not letting you panic just yet. you fall on your stomach to startle him a little and he can't really see you well as he's bowing above you.

"look what you are doing", Seongjun murmurs. his voice drops a tad, he squats and his grip on the neck loosens. you don't think about Yoongi, can't let your brain lose the focus even for a second; you know he's far away, and it's somewhat a relief because you don't actually want him to get caught up in this. you behaved incredibly stupidly just now, letting your anger disproportional to your skill take over. let him mourn your stupid ass and move on.

as Seongjun bends his knees to squat, he loses about 50% of his balance, and you kick. he almost falls forward, catching himself on the ground, and you crawl violently, scraping your skin on the rough asphalt, from under him. burning sensation kicks you awake and you jump up and start running again, but get blinded by the lights. you can hear him rush after you immediately and head for the car, because it's better to be run over now. it gets a little windy, easier on your burning face. you fly towards the light like a moth, taking a little to the left to circle around it, and your heart drops to quiet when you see Yoongi emerge from a dark green Hyundai. your eyes adjust to the contrast of light and darkness. you move on, crashing into the side of it, the metal door meeting you as another hard, unwelcoming surface, and finally fall on the ground in a lump. Yoongi steps around you, eyes focused on Seongjun behind your back, as he raises his arm. heavy, cracking blow follows, and Seongjun gasps breathlessly, collapses on the road like a cardboard copy of himself. Yoongi ouches quietly, shakes his whole arm like he got zipped.

you pant so hard that everything is doubled. hands clutching your knees, palm dirty and stinging over the open cut, you feel the nasty pain but your brain fails to register what exactly is bothering you. people finally come out from the coffeeshop, and a scared female voice calls:

"i called the police".

"great", Yoongi replies breathlessly, "they can revoke my license right away".

he really did make it in thirty minutes. roads were empty, and he was going two hundred, he said. in a 120 maximum zone. his hand is rubbing his neck absent-mindedly. you force it to make your way to the police first to be done with Seongjun and make sure they won't let him walk in two hours after you leave. you can see Yoongi through the open door behind the officer's back, sitting by the wall on the hard iron chair, phone hanging from his other hand. no idea what he's thinking about. he's pretty. he's getting prettier by the minute since he knocked Seongjun out with one punch an hour ago. your head aches like hell, the spot at the roots of the hair pulsating where it hit the table. all things considered, you look worse than you feel. scraped knees hurt much worse now, plus, the shock starts kicking in. not even the scare that Seongjun gave you, but the strange vulnerability at being manhandled so aggressively. being pushed and punched like that, you like your whole self and feel sorry for yourself for being hurt. you keep answering the same questions over and over, almost automatically, stealing glances at Yoongi to keep you calm. his phone rings, and he starts staring somewhere away, in the direction of the reception. he gets angry. they did warn that, without extra evidence that Seongjun had stalked you like, years ago, in a different city, he will be let go until further notice, depending on how this case develops, if it even does. Yoongi's words ring in your ears, and you have to bite on your lips, thinking of the tone of his voice as he said,

"you know i can murder someone and pay my way out of it?"

you hate that you totally forget to not care about him now. now he is the safest, pushing his hair back in a familiar motion, sighing with his cheeks, knees spread apart, the assaulting fist working open and closed. he had said, fighting should hurt. you move your eyes to the officer's face mouthing words at you. you're finally done. suddenly tired, you feel like you have no capacity to argue, pressing the folded cloth a nice lady had given you, wet with cold water, to your head.

"home".

he sniffs, irritated.

"you might have a concussion".

"home", is all you can muster. adrenaline is gone, and pain reigns all over your body. you can't handle another couple of hours in a brightly-lit hospital, surrounded by more people asking questions, administering injections or whatever, you don't want it.

he opens the door of his car with a swing, this is the angriest you've seen Yoongi, ever. his jaw actually moves sideways like Namjoon's. he looks away, doesn't press it further. incredible how, when you're in the presence of an adult, he lets you choose, actually.

"what are you mad about?"

he tilts his head forward and pouts angrily. your leg is shaking, the little nasty pain in the cut is worse than the dull big pain in your head. Yoongi makes you take two pills of a strong painkiller. he keeps blowing on the knee that he's cleaning; no idea how you scraped it that bad and managed to get so much dust into. it must be the dry, rainless street and all that crawling around.

"nothing".

you hiss and notice tragically that he reacts every time; dabs become lighter. he dabs and rubs the cut the way people usually work on his face. it's fun noticing things like that, where he learnt them.

"you'll just tell me i am victim blaming you".

you chuckle through another huff.

"i did provoke him. hard".

"why'd you do it?"

"i don't know, maybe i am dumb".

his eyes study your face for a while, somber.

"or something worse".

he leaves the knee to rest for a while and gets to your hand. the inside of the palm is less injured, but also grey with dirt.

"and shoulder?"

"stop fussing", you ask. his brows shoot up. you see he takes it as an opportunity to release a little frustration.

"you think i'm overreacting? you're bleeding from your head".

"still?"

you raise your other hand to the head and touch the pained spot. a little bump starts forming and you reach for the bag with ice resting on the mirror shelf.

Yoongi suddenly sighs. he lets go of your palm midway, clutching the pad in his fist as his elbows rest on your knees. he drops his head on them. this is him finally exhaling for the first time tonight. hiding his face in your knees, his shoulders go up and down with deep regret. you want to apologize out of habit but you know there's nothing to apologize for. you're just glad he was there on time. your injured hand lies on the back of his head you used to know so well. remember every instance when he had dyed strands of hair peeking out here, now it's all natural black-brown. it's nice against the scraped skin. you still can't take what happened worse than the physical damage; you know the ptsd will kick in later, and the fright of being stalked might never settle. maybe it's just how you are; you've felt so cosy and protected while living in Seoul, you were surrounded by such loving people that you completely lost your caution. take this one: teleported from another city and ended the fight just at the right moment. and you are more concerned now about how his hair feels under your hand than about the concussion. you've had concussions before. you've never fallen in love with the same person twice.

Yoongi helps you into the bath where your body relaxes and the small abrasions sting, fresh, burning you, and keep you awake. the uneven ache at the top of your head is lulled down by painkillers. you think you're hearing the baby pears ring in the yard and tell him about it.

"pears?" he asks, eyes wide open, "ringing like bells?"

you give a small grin,

"it's probably just in my head".

Yoongi puts one hand on the edge of the tub, and his pink knuckles tense. they are slightly redder from the punch. he gets in your face.

"look to the side. now to the left. do you feel sick?"

you feel sick of his care. you don't mind him near, quite enjoy it, but his voice is too concerned. he lost his usual cool, and you know if the roles were reversed, you'd be even less collected, fretting around him. you shake your head no, something in his hand keeps drawing your glance. his phone rings and you can see it's his mother.

"Holly's sick", he says suddenly.

"how bad?"

"he's old", Yoongi replies, serious. he wipes one hand on the towel, still clutching the edge of the tub like it can slowly drift away from him. you sink deeper into the water, gritting your teeth, flinch with pain. he speaks with his mother quietly and you keep looking at his hand. it makes you angry. but more powerfully, it knocks the ground from under your feet. you'd rather still be in Seongjun's clutch than realize this now. it takes a specific life and death circumstance to shake the whole snow mountain awake. this is the hand that has the death grip on your throat. you've achieved nothing. nothing has been solved. he jumps out and does you a favour, and the timer is kicked back off to zero. all your effort, all the feeling of freedom, the determination to feel happier, gets smothered by this hand. his voice is a low, comforting rumble jumping off the walls of your bathroom. you move and place your forehead to his knuckles, close your eyes as tears release themselves onto his skin. it's all pointless; you love this hand too much and a little break just meant this love has grown and transformed into a deeper feeling. whatever that means. there's no escape, he feels and looks like a husband, sitting with one knee up, silver rings in his ear tugging on the tired earlobe.

Yuri snuck away from Jungkook for a moment, wrapped in her wedding dress like in a beautiful, sugary spider web, getting lost in her long veil and the flying sleeves. there's bright youthful blush on her cheeks, she's coming undone in front of him and understandably needs a second to gather herself. your bridesmaid dress is silky and yellow, her favourite colour. the color of Jungkook's voice.

he is striking, effortlessly magnetizing. you rest your eyes on him while Yoongi is a blood spot, making you anxious.

"you think it's fate after all?" you ask her quietly. someone snaps a pic of you two, huddling together, gossiping. Yuri doesn't drink so she has a glass of zero per cent champagne in her hand.

you feel too insecure to admit you acted completely blindly, acting out the delulu until trululu scenario you manifested for each other.

"because i'm starting to believe it".

she sips and nods.

"yea, i believe in fate", she sounds drunk. this is the most deliriously happy you've seen her. all exes are forgotten. all rainy days kicked to the side. "her name is y/n".

the picture of that moment is still in the favourites folder on your phone. the moment when Yuri called you fate. meaning, you are inevitable. you were inevitable in Jungkook's life span. your will to marry your best friend into wealth and exciting life was unavoidable. you always acted like that was the intelligent, highly-calculated plan you've had all along, and not a drunk fluke, a sudden enlightenment and a funny prank. "look who i picked up at the bar, lmao"

now the real fate has smacked you on the teeth. you think it's inexplicable otherwise, other than by fate. life really went on, huh. it released you of the shackles of anxiety about him. look, you withdrew from Yoongi and just continued living, and the parasite of love didn't vanish but retreated into the depths of your mind, like a shadow enemy or a habit. it's a bit tragic and very pretty to think about, how badly you wanted to survive and did it, changing at your own volition. it's such simple words that carry this genius truth: life goes on.

"it's okay", he says. Yoongi thinks you are finally coming to grips with the reality of what happened, finally feel the fright. you move your head slowly on his palm, gathering his little warmth.

"no, it's not okay", you whisper. Komangi the cat enters the bathroom and rubs his body against Yoongi's thigh.

it was never going to be okay, because Yoongi is beyond okay. he is the dream. the looming inevitability of your life.

the sleep hammers you into bed. you can't even move to find a more comfortable position, just switch off almost immediately. the last thing you see is the love of your life drawing the curtains, knowing that the sun will rise in several hours and burn your faces, like it did before.

taglist: @ktownshizzle , @benyhime , @ryryvna , @amarawayne , @mar-lo-pap , @lili-spots , @kiki-zb

#yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #bts imagine

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queenofhalloween94 · 3 days ago

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Master List: OotP Ch. List

Summary: Chan has to see their Omega one more time before leaving for Atlanta.

Warnings: None mostly yearning and fluff

**A few POV switches here and there just to give a insight to how the guys are dealing with and thinking about dear Y/n**

Ch. 3 Tethers and Tension

"In the quiet of the night, the heart speaks what words cannot."

The scent of you lingers. It clings to the hotel suite like a secret, woven through cushions, hanging in the air like heat after a storm. Not strong—warm, rich, and unmistakable. Spiced apple cider, tinged with heat and something softer underneath. . But to eight unmated alphas, it's enough to make sleep impossible.

Chan paces near the window as the sun creeps over the Dallas skyline. The others are scattered across the suite in various states of restlessness. No one’s really asleep. They don’t need to say why.

You left a few hours ago. You sent a message when you got home, just like he asked. Got home safe. Thank you again—for everything.💜 With a little heart emoji. It should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

His whole pack is humming with something raw and unresolved. You were here. And now you’re not. And it’s wrong in a way he doesn’t know how to fix.

💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜

Felix’s POV

He can't stop smelling the couch cushion you sat against. It hits him now, fully formed. It’s not just the omega presence—it’s yours. Crisp apples, cinnamon warmth, and something rich beneath it. He’d recognize it anywhere now. It’s soothing and dizzying and addictive all at once.

He knows it's pathetic. Creepy, even. But there it is—faint, a mix of warmth and skin and that quiet part of you that had looked up at him like he was safe.

“Hyung,” Jeongin mumbles from the other side of the room, wrapped in a hotel blanket. “Are we… okay?”

Felix doesn’t answer right away. Because they’re not. Not really. They’re leaving in six hours for Atlanta.

And their omega—their omega—isn’t coming with them.

💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜

Your POV

You rented the little house last-minute when your hotel fell through. It was supposed to be cozy, quiet, a safe place to crash after the show before driving home in the morning.

You didn’t expect to feel like you were falling apart inside it. The air is too warm. Every breath feels like it’s trying to reach them. The pillows on the couch are too soft. The blanket smells like lavender detergent but none of them.

You pull your knees to your chest and whisper to Luna, who curls beside you in her travel bed with mild annoyance. She’s used to hotels. She’s not used to this feeling either—your scent is shifting. Growing. You're not in heat. But your body knows.

Your omega is waking up.

💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜

At the Hotel

Packing is mechanical. Changbin folds things with unnecessary force.

Hyunjin’s usually graceful movements are jittery, like his limbs are out of sync. Minho has been silent for two straight hours.

Chan finishes organizing everyone’s gear and stares at the last empty corner of his suitcase, his jaw tight.

“We’re not okay,” Seungmin says quietly, breaking the silence. “Are we?”

“No,” Chan says. “We’re not.”

💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜

Bang Chan’s POV

He’s never wanted to do something so stupid in his life. Like cancel the flight. Delay the show. Say fuck it to the logistics and the company and the millions watching them, because she’s here and they’re not supposed to walk away from her.

But they don’t even know what she wants. She hasn’t called. She hasn’t said, I felt it too.

But he knows she did and he can’t let this hang unfinished. He checks the time. If he leaves now, he can be back before they board.

“Hyung?” Jeongin asks as Chan grabs his hoodie and room key.

“Cover for me,” Chan says. “I need twenty minutes.”

💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜

Your POV

You’re halfway through your third coffee when your doorbell rings.

You freeze. Luna bolts under the couch. You peek through the peephole. And your heart stops.

Chan

Cap low over his curls, hoodie zipped, mask on. But it’s him. You’d know that presence anywhere.

You open the door slowly. “Hi,” you say, barely breathing.

“Hi,” he says, voice soft, eyes intense. “Can I come in?”

You step back and let him through.

He looks around the little house like it’s a scene from someone else’s dream. There’s a tea mug on the table. Your work laptop tucked in its sleeve. A soft gray throw folded neatly over the back of the couch.

“Small,” he says. “But nice.”

“Just needed somewhere quiet,” you reply.

His eyes flick to yours. “And is it?”

You look down. “It was. Before I missed all of you so much it hurt.” The words slip out before you can catch them.

Chan exhales slowly and takes a careful step toward you. His scent brushes against your skin—smoky forest, bergamot, and bonfire. It floods your senses with warmth and grounding heat. “We’re leaving soon. For Atlanta.”

You nod. You already knew that. You’d checked their tour schedule this morning.

“I needed to see you before we left,” he says. “I—I didn’t want to just go without saying something.”

“Like what?” you ask.

He hesitates, then steps forward slowly, doesn’t touch. Just looks at you like he wants to memorize your face.

“Like this is real,” he says softly. “What we felt. What we’re feeling.”

You stare at him.

“I know it’s fast. And I know it’s insane. But this… whatever it is, it’s not just us. It’s you, too. I saw it in your eyes. The way you looked at Minho. The way you calmed Hyunjin without realizing.”

Your lips part, but he gently lifts a hand—asking for silence, or maybe space to finish.

“We’re not asking you to drop your life. Or come with us right away. But we will come back. And when we do…” He exhales slowly. “We want to try. All of us.”

Something swells in your chest. “You’re really… all in?” you ask, barely audible.

He nods once. “We have to be. You’re it. We feel it down to the bone.”

You blink hard, throat tightening. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to know yet,” he says. “Just… don’t run.”

You reach out without thinking. Your fingers touch his. It’s like static—warm and electric. He lets you hold his hand. You stay like that for a long moment, breath and silence and understanding between you.

He pulls you to him enveloping you in his warmth, his scent heavy covering you like a calming blanket. You smile into his chest and murmur “Big Hug” Causing him to squeaky laugh which is music to your ears.

💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜

In the Van

The scent hits them the second he climbs in. Apple cider. It clings to his hoodie, woven into his skin now. Like he dipped himself in your warmth.

“Hyung,” Felix says, barely a whisper. “You saw her?”

Chan nods. “She’s okay. But her scent’s building.”

“She’ll be in heat soon,” Minho murmurs.

Han grips the seat. “And we’re leaving her alone?”

“We’re not leaving her forever,” Chan says firmly. “Just for now.”

💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜

Your POV

Even that night you can still feel his hand in yours, the weight of his arms still around you like a phantom. The ache is worse now. Your body feels floaty, hot in bursts. You know what this is.

You’re not in full pre-heat. Not yet. But the bond is calling. Their scent is rooted somewhere in your skin now, even though they’re gone. You lie in bed with Luna curled beside you, tears on your pillow, breath hitching every few minutes for no reason you can name.

You’re not mated. You’re not even theirs officially yet. And still—you miss them like you’ve always known them.

You reach out making a group text, Chan immediately replies.

**Thank you for reading!!**

**Tags open**

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n4rval · 11 hours ago

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SCREAMS AHHHH SHAKING YOU

OKAY SO

for starters i love the art im giggling at the huge chip (i may suck at proportions)

"FLESHLING" refers to any and all creature of flesh and blood, something not exclusive to humankind. It feels wrong for him to say "HUMANS" when truly he means not monster, as he is already so fascinated by mortal remains and "THE INTERDEPENDENT SYSTEMS OF THOSE MADE OF FLESH".

Conclusively, as flesh-like a monster can look, their bodies are still mostly, if not entirely magic. Himself included. Either way, this guy is the king of weird, yet oddly fitting terms for everything.

I promise he's much more polite in person and won't be so uncreative as to limit himself to calling human children FLESHLINGS over and over.

"INFANT" or "LITTLE LADY" do well for a tiny cutie who doesn't really care what words you use.

So is "LAD", if you're more boyish and grown up.

Or, if you're feeling adventurous, "SUPREME OVERLORD OF THE NETHERWORLD" for making fun of an old man who often takes things literally and immediately regretting it because it got corny very fast and now he said it in front of your parents.

Definitely all of the old-fashioned terms and strange wording you can think of, yes.

i am so glad you've noticed and bothered to look up the meanings of their names i was so cooking here

FOLLOWING BELOW: More on SOUL dynamics (with art!), Wingding's centuries of research, getting shaken like a snowglobe

I think it is also important to establish that none of the fallen humans could save, load and reset. Otherwise, we'd not only have a lot of issues with the overall story progression and worldbuilding, but it also undermines the role of the anomaly and flowey's contributions to the narrative.

Long story short, the universe's mechanics said there is a cut one has to make. If there was one(1) single monster left in the entire world, that single monster would not be able to load or save - as it is not simply a ranking thing. DT varies within each individual amongst the category of lifeform they fall into and it is, well, not usual (abnormal, even) to concentrate so much.

"The chosen one" is a common narrative trope and Frisk is special in that sense - and along with Flowey, they fulfill the angel's role in UNDERTALE's prophecy.

Then, what was Toriel hinting at here?

Well, personally? I like to think that for the others, the dynamic was much like retro games, where you have a set number of lives. One run, one timer, one true death.

Once a life is consumed, loading respects an automated programming of restarting a level until you're done for. No such thing as a menu screen with choices. The same appears to have been applied to Chara, as they seem to be somewhat familiar with the world's mechanics when awakened with enough LV – like they've gained an extra life for a brief moment. It is also odd how they specifically asked for Asriel to take their body to the surface once they were bound together, as if trying to avert the effects of automated revival within the Underground's barrier.

This way, we work out both the conundrum of keeping the timeline linear and their reasons for being stuck at the game over screen as spectators.

With this out of the way,

how the FUCK would these two of all children get so far in the first place.

quite simple. they've got the most CHEAT of all soul modes. one doesnt even have to move, and all the other has to do is keep moving.

why would any member of the royal guard make you cyan or orange. much easier to just immobilize you with a cage of either colour

something something DT or whatever

We know that whatever SOUL research was being done, Wingdings preferred to apply it in new technology to improve monster life underground rather than actually finding a way to bypass the barrier — probably because of his relationship with the royal family and how distant of a reality it seemed after the tragedy. Instead, how about investing on automating security? Good and quick food for everyone? Optimizing transportation? Wouldn't it be nice if you could just open a door and already be somewhere else far, far away? But then population grew even more, and suddenly the confined space of the caverns isn't enough anymore, so now we have to resource to crazier ideas.

I feel like the extraction machine does not do the work of isolating and refining the substance we know as DT, because every soul is unique – each light is unique. In Deltarune, we see how Dark Worlds change depending on the creator of the fountain even if it's the very same place. That is applied SOUL POWER, something we will define as the raw determination that was purified for other purposes during Alphys' research.

it fucking POSTED INSTEAD OF SAVING. MY DRAFT. I WILL WRITE MORE LATER.

The Bravery SOUL. so normal about it Shotout to n4rval's Gaster who got me thinking about the two humans‼️ Stares

(Patience not included as it's just plain good ol 'Your Best Friend' throughout) Why does the theme sound so NERDY. All the other SOULs, even Kindness, sound serious. And it would be logical for Perseverance to sounds like that, but nope: it's Bravery's theme.

When I listen to Kindness' theme, it associates with defending oneself, Perseverance with calculating your next moves, while Justice focuses on the opponent's.

Integrity is hard, its creepiness strays me from my line of thought, but most fitting would be 'attacking'. The dustiness of the tutu doesn't play a role in my choice and it's likely that neither of the humans killed anyone, as it would instill at least some fear into monsters and, y'know', be mentioned at least somewhere. But self-defense is still an option, though! Doesn't have to go as far as murder. Nerdy, and many people have pointed out the presence of Gaster's leitmotif in there.

(The video it's taken from)

And, well, these. Just some silly things. Personally I think Gaster could've dealt with two humans after Chara, namely Patience and Bravery. The Patience and Bravery weren't used for the reason of being excessive (I feel like 4 SOUL modes is enough) and Toby not having ideas about how such a SOUL mode could be even executed (the OVERTIME one has a special place in hell). But if looking at it from an in-universe perspective, what if Gaster utilized the SOUL power for lasers? I think a monster's SOUL combines every human trait in it, making it white. Like RGB. So they can also use colored attacks, which have a unique effect. The Royal Guard uses blue attacks to hinder the movement of their target, or, more specifically, a human. Same goes for sentries like Sans and Papyrus. Woshua uses them so you could stand still and let it cleanse you. Hard to say why Gyftrot would, but hey! It's a personal choice, so why not? Orange attacks are very scarce and only one monster exclusively uses that type of attack, and not a combo. Tthat monster being Pyrope. When it comes to switching between these two, Mettaton uses both because of the lasers prominent in the CORE and Hotland, while also being a robot, which, I suppose, makes the utilization easier. Asgore, unlike Undyne, isn't adamant on his target being still to the point of rendering it immobile, so he uses blue attacks instead like the rest of the Royal Guard, while also mixing them with orange ones to disorient the human. So Sorry is a weird case. They attack you but are also sorry for that. (Asgore-style) ..They're quite the character. Green attacks are self-explanatory. Also got a silly idea: what if, since a monster's SOUL is all traits mixed together, white attacks damage you since that is also applicable to them? If you make an orange and a blue attack into one, then it turns into an attack that damages you upon contact either way. But strong monsters, like the main cast, can turn your SOUL a different color. Which, too, is connected to the fact that a monster SOUL consists of every trait, so it can be any color. I already talked about Undyne above. Sans rarely even fights, but in the one instance that he does, it's the sins weighing on our SOUL. Papyrus views the whole fighting thing differently, so for him it's about the challenge. The art of fighting. The purple and yellow modes are a bit weird, the latter one especially. But Muffet uses the former one over the green one due to her playfulness. The purpose of the yellow mode is hard pin down, because it doesn't inconvenience you in any way. But a SOUL is a SOUL, so naturally, SOUL magic would affect them as well. The yellow mode could be used to aid monsters and allow them to get more precise hits? My point is, monsters using either of these (colored attacks and SOUL modes) is natural. What Gaster did was to use that power a bit differently, fusing it with technology.

I feel like Bravery stayed with Gaster for a bit longer than Patience, hence the amount of connections. But if we're going off of Flowey's order of the six SOULs, Patience died first. Bravery dies shortly afterwards. Very reminiscent of the Dreemurrs, isn't it? Ouch. Imagine searching for them and finding out that you arrived a bit late to the scene. Gaster, probably: human...... i know your BRAVE.

#undertale #artwork #headcanons #fallen humans #patience soul #bravery soul #getting this done after a whole year #nobody is going to read this #because it has tons of art and headcanons i will tag accordingly however #IT FUCKING POSTED. WITHOUT MY PERMISSION #BEAR WITH ME OKAY #do i tag mr dings #wd gaster #gaster #whatever #im so tired #tumblr fix your damn website #i wrote so much more while editing and it didnt save bruh im so tired

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helloarchivist · 2 years ago

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hey so I'm literally starting to hate the word "radical" in its political usage.

it is not radical to think that people deserve food and clean water.

it is not radical to think that people deserve safe housing, full stop.

it is not radical to think that bodily autonomy is a human right.

it is not radical to think that queer and trans folks should be allowed to exist comfortably and happily, be allowed to marry each other, and have access to medical care, gender-affirming or otherwise.

it is not radical to think that children shouldn't be going into debt over school lunches.

it is not radical to think that education should be free.

it is not radical to think that nobody should have to die of preventable/treatable illnesses.

it is not radical to think that poverty shouldn't fucking exist.

belief in basic human rights and dignities for everyone that exists is not a radical stance, we're a cooperative species, we are LITERALLY built to care for and help each other.

attaching the term "radical" to any stance that approaches compassionate and decent is a tool of the oppressor class, and we are literally 200 years behind the curve. we HAVE to re-frame the way we talk about these things and throw the fucking shackles off.

#av speaks #don't come after me about radical vs reactionary #I know what the words mean i've written so many gd papers you would not believe #I'm saying that irrespective of the current political usage #that word is wrong and is a mechanism that is in use to like #purposefully keep everyone desperate and scattered #nobody wants to be part of a radical group because we've been socialized to conform #so labeling anything good for us as radical taps into a lizard brain fear response #of being part of the out-group #gotta stop looking at people as out- vs in-groups #its a rabbit hole of suck and it's killing us

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turnedpalefromlackofsun · 1 month ago

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why sacrifice alh*itham for k*veh fluff

what makes them so cool is that they sand eachother with their rough surfaces

theyre like evenly matched beyblades. they'll eventually settle together buuuuuuuuuuuuuuut

people really do inherently to some degree believe alh*itham is in the wrong and should conform to k*vehs boundaries.

haiyi has boundaries too. he just doesnt really need to display them because he takes care of things himself.

its an explode vs implode kind of case

the debris goes inside. hes not loud.

he acts the way he does because those are his boundaries. hes not being an asshole (most of the time that people think he is. he is an asshole on purpose sometimes lol). thats what he needs so thats what he does and thats how he is.

he gets warped into being warmer instead of having them both meet halfway.

"he should just talk about his feelings" thats not his character. hes not gonna do it like that. k*veh is! not really. he wont talk about his true feelings if it inconveniences others (which he thinks is most of the time) but hes more likely to if you heal his issues.

haiyi wont do it at all. actions > words. we've all seen him. when has he ever? thats not him being stubborn or stiff any more that k*veh is a whiney sensitive bitch (i am SO SO SO sorry babygirl im making a point). thats him inherently.

k*veh is my favorite character.

they grate on eachother!

#everyone in my life i love is like k*veh.#sometimes i see that k*veh gets upset and its portrayed that haiyi is wrong #wh- just because someones upset doesnt meant theyre right or valid.#sometimes. the coping mechanism is to just blow off some steam. let them yell or cry.#and then prepare tea or whatever for when they stop tweaking #its that understanding you know what im saying?#i feel like im the minority here. i swear i have canon to back me up. i swear!!!!#my cognitive functions are slowly activating. i can remember canon enough to think lets gooooooooooo. we're SO BACK #so lets say haiyi is overwhelmed and ignores kvh. kvh will yell and be mad and take it personally. but he will back off #even if he misunderstands and doesnt get off. he will yell and complain and backoff. because he is bound by his own ideals #kvhs crime is his empathy. he cares. and he prioritizes everyone above himself. he wont like it. he might not agree. but he will do it.#on principle he will. and haiyi is not the bad guy for this. thats what he needs its his right to do so. he doesnt need to accept kvhs help #these are both their characters and boundaries at play. later kvh will complain and use it to poke haiyi. and haiyi will bring something #something else up to quiet and poke kvh back (to annoyance and anger but not to that silent hurt). and then things continue #thats not to say haiyi wont go too far. he might. but he is skilled at social maneuvers . see: interd*rshan tournament.#he will fix it. through actions not words. maybe words but again. by riling kvh up

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gay-artificer · 1 year ago

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Just for clarity I've seen some people mix this up and it is like actually an issue (to treat them as the same thing) so for reference for your worldbuilding/headcanons and such: Hermaphrodite ≠ intersex They are two distinct things. A hermaphrodite is an organism that produces both types of gametes, or otherwise is 'both male and female' - either by being functionally both sexes at once or by changing which sex they are actively under certain conditions. Any sexual organs are fully developed and functional. (It should also be noted that its a perfectly normal scientific term, but in humans its considered largely incorrect or outright offensive because the vast, vast majority of with such conditions do not actually fit under this descriptor and are mistakenly included as if they are same thing) Intersex, in contrast, refers to the partial or 'midway' development of sexual characteristics in species that would normally have distinct male and female sex splits. Its a natural occurrence and covers a wide range of traits/developments but, as a result of being only partial development, functionally is often limited- So you get things like sterility, or a 'dominate' sex, etc. It covers a /lot/ of different things in terms of how exactly it manifests It gets more complicated that obviously, but in general you should try to avoid meshing the two together as they describe very different things and historically theres been a lot of push to separate the two terms.

#for clarity male and female here refers specifically to the type of gamete that is produced by the body #in species where two different types are produces the largest is the female and the small one is male #this is how any species with 2 gametes is classed regardless of the mechanisms behind it #in some species only size gamete is produced [isogamy] and those are classed differently #Anyway theres a high chance i got something wrong here [feel free to speak up] but mostly just want to clarify because #if you want slugcats to be both male and female intersex is NOT the term to be using there they are different things #and any overlap is going to be like .0000001 chance type thing #theres also a lot of weird biology things across species that make things funny #like sex reversal in hens #but anyway the takeaway is that words mean things even if they seem like they cover similar things

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mangled-by-disuse · 8 months ago

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On the one hand, I totally understand what this post is saying, and I can see what it's aiming at. I think I agree with it?

On the other, what about those of us who do experience our abuse as lack, as absence, as gap? Personally, as often as I look back at my childhood and see pain and fear, I look back and see what I wasn't and what I lacked.

Lack of trust isn't just mistrust. I don't mistrust people because of my past, I don't trust them. It is a series of things I am unable to do (be emotionally honest, relax, believe compliments, have faith in their presence) as much as the things that I do do (push people away, hide feelings with sarcasm, withdraw), and it isn't just coping mechanisms, maladaptive or otherwise - the lack of trust is itself a thing.

Lack of safety isn't just the presence of fear. Fear is a feeling on its own, and to my mind, requires direction and intensity. And, like, don't get me wrong: I spend a lot of time afraid, and have historically spent much more time afraid - I jump at loud noises and people yelling makes me dissolve into a five-year-old hiding under the covers. But I equally just experience it, and experienced it, as instability and discomfort - both things, to be clear, that are defined by absence.

Lack of hope isn't the presence of despair, or at least, not consciously. Sometimes it is just looking at the future and seeing nothing - even when there's nothing right now, either.

Lack of love didn't just feel like self-loathing to me. It felt like an absence, a thing I should have but didn't, even separate from feeling at fault. Losing love in a relationship (romantic or familial) has always felt like trying to hold water in my hands, and like that, I don't necessarily feel "I have failed for not holding this", I'm just left with empty hands.

A lot of my experience of abuse, from the inside (and I'm bolding that to emphasise that I know this is an experiential thing, not a factual thing), was of being and having less. Of numbness, emptiness, instability, and general absence, and of all the things I wasn't able to do or think. And that's hard to square with writing abuse as described, precisely because my experience of abuse is from the inside - and, honestly, because I feel like the bone-deep sense of being hollowed-out and empty is an important kind of trauma experience that can be really valuable to explore. (Ideally challenged by the narrative, but... not always? Like, I'm in my 30s and a good number of years out of the abusive environments I've been in, and I still feel that emptiness constantly.)

And, like, I want to be clear that this isn't a "you're wrong", it's a "you're right, AND". AND, for a lot of people, trauma and abuse are experienced as absence rather than presence. AND, if you're writing in close perspective, or if you're writing to exorcise your own demons, that might bleed into fic. AND, while no life is defined by what it lacks, it can bloody often feel that way.

(that said, "and then someone loved them and they were immediately fine because the absence had been filled" is actually pretty fucking gross and can die tyvm)

There are a lot of abuse and recovery stories out there in fandom. A lot of them are written by people who’ve never been in an abusive relationship. That’s fine, that certainly doesn’t mean you can't write it, especially when it’s present in canon. Unfortunately, it does mean that a lot of people get it wrong.

The usual abuse narrative you see in fandom is a story about absence. The lack of safety. The lack of freedom. The lack of love, or of hope, or of trust. They try to characterize the life of an abused kid, or an abused partner, based on what’s missing. They characterize recovery based on getting things back: finding safety, discovering freedom, and slowly regaining the ability to trust–other people, the security of the world, themselves.

That doesn’t work. That is not how it works.

Lives cannot be characterized by negative space. This is a statement about writing. It’s also a statement about life.

You can’t write about somebody by describing what isn’t there. Or you can, but you’ll get a strange, inverted, abstracted picture of a life, with none of the right detail. A silhouette. The gaps are real but they're not the point.

If you’re writing a story, you need to make it about the things that are there. Don’t try to tell me about the absence of safety. Safety is relative. There are moments of more or less safety all throughout your character’s day. Absolute safety doesn’t exist in anyone’s life, abusive situation or not.

If you are trying to tell me a story about not feeling safe, then the question you need to be thinking about is, when safety is gone, what grows in the space it left behind?

Don’t try to tell me a story about a life characterized by the lack of safety. Tell me a story about a life defined by the presence of fear.

What's there in somebody’s life when their safety, their freedom, their hope and trust are all gone? It’s not just gaps waiting to be filled when everything comes out right in the end. It’s not just a void.

The absence of safety is the presence of fear. The absence of freedom is the presence of rules, the constant litany of must do this and don’t do that and a very very complicated kind of math beneath every single decision. The lack of love feels like self-loathing. The lack of trust translates as learning skills and strategies and skepticism, how to get what you need because you can’t be sure it’ll be there otherwise.

You don’t draw the lack of hope by telling me how your character rarely dares to dream about having better. You draw it by telling me all the ways your character is up to their neck in what it takes to survive this life, this now, by telling me all the plans they do have and never once in any of them mentioning the idea of getting out.

This is of major importance when it comes to aftermath stories, too. Your character isn’t a hollow shell to be filled with trust and affection and security. Your character is full. They are brimming over with coping mechanisms and certainties about the world. They are packed with strategies and quickfire risk-reward assessments, and depending on the person it may look more calculated or more instinctual, but it’s there. It’s always there. You’re not filling holes or teaching your teenage/adult character basic facts of life like they’re a child. You’re taking a human being out of one culture and trying to immerse them in another. People who are abused make choices. In a world where the ‘wrong’ choice means pain and injury, they make a damn career out of figuring out and trying to make the right choice, again and again and again. People who are abused have a framework for the world, they are not utterly baffled by everyone else, they make assumptions and fit observations together in a way that corresponds with the world they know.

They’re not little lost children. They’re not empty. They’re human beings trying to live in a way that’s as natural for them as life is for anybody, and if you’re going to write abuse/recovery, you need to know that in your bones.

Don’t tell me about gaps. Tell me about what’s there instead.

#cw: abuse #abuse dynamics #trauma #again i want to be clear that this is not a fundamental disagreement with op #there IS a lot of unpleasantly reductive trauma writing out there #and there ARE a lot of problems with defining trauma as lack #it's just. like. that's how trauma feels for some of us?#lack of support. lack of trust. lack of safety. lack of strength. lack of hope. lack of everything.#that lack DOES lead to presence of coping mechanisms and different perceptions #but i personally do lean on the sense of lack in my writing #and it's not because i don't know what abuse is like #it's because i know what it was like for me #(key words: for me. none of this is generalisable.)#also to be fair i am someone who also just in general defines themselves by what they're not #which might be contributing #idk why this hit me the way it did #sorry #i didn't mean to write an essay and i hope it doesn't read as a NO BUGGER OFF YOU'RE WRONG #bc i honestly think the op is giving a really important and valuable sentiment #it's a good take #it's just one that doesn't resonate with me #one of the difficult things about depicting trauma is that there's absolutely nothing that's universal about it #and i guess that's also a pretty difficult thing about discussing it

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moe-broey · 11 months ago

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Oh. Huh.

#they moved nagamas to ao3? which makes sense all the reasons given for it ect ect #idk if i really wanna go That out of my way for it though........ it was really fun/a huge test of my abilities when i participated #but like. this is my confession. my cardinal sin maybe. but i barely if ever read fic (and obvs ao3 is more than fic it's a whole archive)#and if i do. i'm only doing it about characters i like generally but am not really that heavily invested in.#like i can read an ike/soren. have a little fun w it. maybe aa fics. kinda fun.#but i live in a beautifyl world on an island in my mind palace where alfonse is ambiguously but distinctly queer/mlm #deeply elaborate inner world about it. so much internal lore. the alfonse that lives in my head is so important to me.#if i see anyone doing him wrong i'm going to kill them on sight. i'm so sorry. i won't even lie or joke i'm straight up not normal about it.#LIKE it used to be WORSE ACTUALLY..... i have had to grow as a person. to be nicies. so we can all play touys and hold hands.#i'm not even being dramatic. it is that serious.#i'm not vaguing i'm jusf trying to find a way to explain that sometimes.#transmasc who had an emotionally devastating breakup on account of incompatibility 🫵 are you being normal about women.#like my core point here. sometimes you do gotta self reflect on the load bearing coping mechanism #and sometimes your world gets a little fuller for it! wow! so beaitfylf.... congrasts on being nicies 😊👍#but you could not pay me to venture into ao3 about a character i'm heavily invested in. i will kill us both.#and. obvs. what. started this ramble. nagamas is probably its own thing on there #but that is too far out of my comfort zone. you cannot pull me out of this dark corner. i live here. i'll die anywhere else.#huge props and shoutouts to fic writers though like! cool valid art medium i've even considered myself #i'm too comic brained though. i'd have to hone a whole ass other skillset also. like. i'm not a stranger to writing #but i'm def rusty. and really again my one true love is words WITH images #i just. don't wanna come off like i'm shitting on fic i respect fic so much. i just don't often indulge in it #and i am. such. a high strung bitch. that is entirely a me issue. you don't gotta worry about that! 🫡#we can ALL play touys ... with each other or side by side or separately. peace and love 💖

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whumptober · 10 months ago

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WHUMPTOBER 2024: PROMPTS LIST

Welcome to Whumptober 2024 — Seventh Time's a Charm!

Please make sure to read the Event Info and FAQ below carefully, as most of your questions will be answered there already. For everything else, you are welcome to come to our ask box or ask questions in our Discord server here.

This year’s AO3 Collection can be found here.

This year's playlist can be found here.

The 'Anatomy of a Whumptober Prompt' post can be found here.

And our 'Resources for Writing Sensitive Topics' post is here.

We’re very excited to see the community come together for another year of Whumptober! Go wild with the prompts, and support your fellow creators - we wish you all the fun!

Best of luck and happy whumping,

Mods Vanne, Yenn, Kitty and Surro

(Text versions of the prompts, as well as event information, rules and FAQ are posted below the cut!)

Whumptober 2024 Prompt List

No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.)

No. 2: TRUST ISSUES

Amusement Park | Role Reversal | “You got away with the crime while the knife's in my back.” (Charlotte Sands, Rollercoaster)

No. 3: SET UP FOR FAILURE

Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you."

No. 4: HALLUCINATIONS

Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More)

No. 5: SUNBURN

Healing Salve | Heatstroke | "If my pain will stretch that far." (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

No. 6: NOT REALISING THEY'RE INJURED

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | "It's not my blood."

No. 7: ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES

Unconventional Weapon | Magic with a Cost | "It's us or them."

No. 8: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Isolation Chamber | Forced to Stay Awake | "Leave the lights on." (Coldplay, Midnight)

No. 9: OBSESSION

Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.” (Fall Out Boy, Irresistible)

No. 10: BLOW TO THE HEAD

Slurred Words | Passing Out from Pain | "I can't think straight."

No. 11: SEEING DOUBLE

Convenience Store | Loneliness | “Leave no trace behind, like you don't even exist.” (Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs)

No. 12: STARVATION

Underground Caverns | Cannibalism | "Just a little more."

No. 13: TEAM AS A FAMILY

Familial Curse | Multiple Whumpees | "Death will do us part." (Set It Off, Partner's In Crime)

No. 14: LEFT FOR DEAD

Hunting Gear | Blackmail | “Because I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted” (tiLLie, kooL aiD mAn)

No. 15: CHILDHOOD TRAUMA

Painful Hug | Moment of Clarity | "I did good, right?"

No. 16: NECROSIS

Swamp | Wound Cleaning | "No, I can't feel anything."

No. 17: NOWHERE ELSE TO GO

Ruined Map | Shipwrecked | "We had a good run."

No. 18: REVENGE

Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.” (Panic! at the Disco, Emperor's New Clothes)

No. 19: BLOOD TRAIL

Abandoned Cabin | One Way Out | "Is there anybody alive out there?" (Bruce Springsteen, Radio Nowhere)

No. 20: EMOTIONAL ANGST

Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | "It's not your fault."

No. 21: BODY HORROR

Body Horror | Tattoo Gun | Spirit Possession | “Let the bedsheet soak up the tears.” (Apparat feat. Soap & Skin, Goodbye)

No. 22: BLEEDING THROUGH BANDAGES

Tourniquet | Reopening Wounds | "Oh that's not good."

No. 23: FORCED CHOICE

Public Display | Broken Pedestal | "I'm doing this for you."

No. 24: RADIATION POISONING

Collapsed Building | Equipment Failure | “I never knew daylight could be so violent.” (Florence + The Machine, No Light, No Light)

No. 25: SURGERY

Stitches | Being Monitored | "It's for your own good."

No. 26: NIGHTMARES

Breakfast Table | Parting Words of Regret | “I'm haunted by the lies that I have loved, the actions I have hated.” (Poe, Haunted)

No. 27: VOICELESS

Laboratory | Muzzled | “I have no mouth and I must scream.”

No. 28: DENIAL

CCTV | Exposure | "They caught me red handed."

No. 29: FATIGUE

Labyrinth | Burnout | "Who said you could rest?"

No. 30: RECOVERY

Hospital Bed | Holding Back Tears | "What have I done?"

No. 31: ASKING FOR HELP

Therapy | Making Amends | "I'm alive, I'm just not well." (Elliot Lee, Alive, Not Well.)

Alternatives List:

Body Swap

Communication Barrier

Finding Old Messages

Forgotten

Friendly Fire

Motion Sickness

No-Holds-Barred Beatdown

Regret

Secrets Revealed

Shivering

Survivor's Guilt

Time Loop

Used As Bait

Venom

Vermin

Event Info & Rules

WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation challenge (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are 31 official themes this year - one for each day of the month - which can be used, skipped, or combined in any way you’d like. They are meant to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don’t have to include the exact wording of prompts into your work). Feel free to run rampant on interpretation. For example, if the prompt is “flame", you could create something with reference to a candle/campfire, your character could have suffered a burn, or the flame could be a reference to an ‘old flame’ - an old relationship. It’s truly down to you!

In total, there are 4 prompts for each day. These are optional suggestions and can be used in conjunction with the theme, or as options/alternatives. We want to give everyone as much creative freedom as possible, as well as increase event accessibility for folks with triggers and squicks. There is also a list of 15 alternative prompts that can be subbed in for any day, again to give participants as much creative freedom as possible.

Creators can PRODUCE work in any media they choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, photo/video/audio edits, paper crafts and elaborate recommendation lists (not just a list of links). Creators can PARTICIPATE as much or as little as they want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.

When uploading Whumptober content to your blog, be sure to tag it with:

#whumptober2024 …..(the event tag)

#no.1, #no.2, #no.3, …..(theme number)

#bruises, #stabbing, …..(the theme or specific prompt you chose)

#altprompt …..(if you use an altprompt, tag the post with the number of the prompt you replace)

#fandom or #OC, …..(ironman, original content, oc, etc.)

#medium …..(gifs, fic, podcast, art, etc.)

#teeth, #etc …..(trigger warnings & any additional tags. Keep in mind not to add “tw” in front but only use the word/trigger itself)

#nsfwhump …..(only for nsfw content)

#your own tags go here

PLEASE BE DILIGENT WITH YOUR TAGGING. Only properly tagged posts are considered for archiving on the official @whumptober-archive blog. They must be tagged in the order above. An elaborate post about our tagging system can be found [here]

Unfortunately, due to the sheer number of participants in recent years, we cannot guarantee your work will be archived. A random selection of properly tagged posts from all genres will be reblogged each day.

Whumpers who produce content for 31 total theme days are considered event completionists and will be tagged in a masterpost at the end of the month. A form will be published at the beginning of November asking you to tell us if you completed. This is based on trust and we will not check this.

Frequently Asked Questions

Please read this before you send an ask!

TIMELINE

July: Trope voting form released. Late August: Prompt list is released for at least four weeks of preparation time. Tropes cannot be posted earlier than August 25th because of Moderator obligations in real life. (But, you know, go ahead and start writing/drawing, and add the themes in later, if you want!) September: Do as much or as little on your works as you want. You can prepare everything in advance or let September go by with vibes and start working in October. It’s up to you. October 1st: Challenge begins! A storm of whump breaks upon us all! During this time, some posts will be reblogged to the whumptober archive blog. We open the yearly AO3 collection for posting (optional). November 1st: The challenge is officially over! Completionist form opens for those who want to be included in the hall-of-fame. Early November: We release completionist and participant badges, solicit feedback, and post a hall-of-fame list of completionists by the 10th.

PARTICIPATION AND COMPLETION

Q: What counts as participation? Create or continue at least one work inspired by one of this year’s prompts. Q: What counts as completion? Creating work(s) inspired by at least one prompt from each day (or alts), for a total of 31 unique prompts. Q: Do I need to create 31 works? No. You can, if you want. Or you can create one work that you add to every day with a new prompt. Or several works that combine prompts. You can also update an existing work by adding new material with the current prompts. Q: Do I need to post my works somewhere to be a completionist or a participant? No. Q: How do you know I actually completed the challenge? We’ll take your word for it! Q: Do I have to finish my work(s) to be a completionist? No, you can post WIPs. And you’re not obligated to finish them in October, but if you want it to count towards being a completionist, you must have completed 31 prompts by the end of the month. So for example, if you’re writing a long fic and you fit 31 different prompts into the writing you did in October, it’s okay if that fic isn’t finished by the time October ends, you’ll still be a completionist. Q: Is co-writing/illustrating allowed? Yes, absolutely, and it would count towards being a completionist for both/all of you. Q: Is there a min/max limit on word count for written works? No. Q: Is there a min/max limit of quality for art? No. Q: Do I have to do something each day to be a completionist? No. You can skip days whenever you want, and as long as 31 daily prompts (or alts) are in your works done in October, you can be a completionist. For example, if you wrote a 1000-word ficlet that covers prompts in days 2, 3, and 17, you can check all three days off your list even though it’s only one work. Q: Is this challenge just for fics? No! Artworks, GIFsets, headcannons, rec lists, poetry, moodboards, or any other creative work is encouraged. Q: Can I combine Whumptober with other creation challenges? Absolutely, as long as the other challenges allow it too.

PROMPTS

Q: How do the prompts work? There are FOUR prompts per day: a theme and three ideas. You can use one, two, three, or all four prompts for each day. If you don’t like any of the daily prompts, you can substitute one of the ALT prompts instead. Q: How strictly/literally should we interpret the prompts? As literally or as figuratively as you want. For example, if the theme is WATER, that could mean drowning, waterboarding, raining, swimming, take place underwater, be lost at sea, construct a metaphor about a character’s mood that changes like a flowing river, crying, or whatever else you can think of that fits that theme. Q: Can I combine prompts? Is there a limit on how many? No limit and combine as many as you’d like. If you create a work that checks off multiple prompts, that work will count for a fill of multiple prompts. You need to address 31 different prompts to be an official completionist, but you don’t have to produce 31 separate works.

WORKS

Q: What’s whump? Hurting a character, whether that’s physically, emotionally, intellectually, psychologically, or any other way you can think of. Comfort afterwards is optional. Angst is emotional whump, so it counts. Q: How do I know if it’s whumpy enough? If your character is just mildly inconvenienced, it probably needs more whump. However, no participant has to prove whumpiness to the mods. Whatever you write is up to you. Q: What kind of characters can I create for? Anything. Generic “whumpee,” OC, PC, NPC, major characters, minor characters, or whatever you want. There are no limits. Q: Does it have to take place in a specific fandom? No, you can create works for your own worlds or for fandoms or for both. You can also create more generic or pan-fandom works. You can do cross-overs or use OCs, whatever you want. Q: Can I create AI-created works? We will not reblog or promote any works we know to be generative AI-created. Q: Is there anything we’re not allowed to write? As long as it contains whump and is based on our prompts, it’s fine. Please courtesy tag your works if you post them so people who follow the #whumptober2024 tag can filter according to their preferences. Q: What about sex, minor characters, and potentially disturbing content? You can create whatever works are legal in your country and post them accordingly. Please courtesy tag anything you think might be objectionable if you post to Tumblr so people who follow the #whumptober2024 tag can filter according to their preferences.

POSTING

Q: Where can I post my work? Post where and how you want. You don’t even have to (cross)post it to Tumblr. Just keep in mind if it’s not on Tumblr we will not be able to add it to the blog archive. There is an AO3 archive for Whumptober 2024, as well as the parent collection for works completed outside of the event. Q: Can I start posting early? You can, but this is an October event and wouldn’t it be more fun with everyone doing it at the same time? We won’t be reblogging any work predating October 1st. Q: Can I post late? Yes. For the sake of our hardworking Post Fairies, only a day’s themes will be reblogged to @whumptober-archive each day of October. But you can post whenever. Some of us are still working on and posting Whumptober fics from years ago. Q: Do I have to use your tags? Only on Tumblr and only if you want us to reblog your work on @whumptober-archive. Q: How do I have my works reblogged to the archive? Properly tagged posts will be reblogged to @whumptober-archive. If you want the official archive blog to reblog you, post on Tumblr and tag correctly (see this FAQ link for more info on tagging). Please note not all posts will be reblogged each day. Q: Can we @ you? For questions and comments, of course. We’ll be getting a flood of notifications, so if you really want us to see something send an ask. Q: Can I cross post on other blogs? Yes, multiple platforms and blogs are perfectly acceptable, as long as they allow cross-posting (to us). You can also post different works to different accounts under different names, without posting them everywhere at once. If you post some works under your main and others under an alt blog, that’s fine for completionist purposes. Q: Can I upload/repost my Whumptober content to other social media platforms? Of course! We’ve created an AO3 Collection to archive any fics posted there, which can be found here. The blog is the official archive, so please respect the personal boundaries of any whumpers in your social circle (don’t out anyone as a participant who would prefer not to be outed).

Most importantly, have fun, create, and enjoy all the whump posted this October!

#whumptober #whumptober2024 #writing challenge #prompts list #prompts #writing prompts #whump

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moliathh · 11 months ago

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this is so true bc on first watch i was like "oh... guns... vampires..." but after i have lost count of the amount of time i rewatched one night i woke up in cold sweat realizing hellsing is literally demonstrating buddhism ideology of impermanence and self awareness 🤨 dunno if Hirano planned it or is just a common ideology presented across religions that eventually u will end up with even if ur an atheist 👁️ but the vanitas theme is STRONG

watching hellsing

14 y/o me: i don’t even know what’s going on half the time besides guns, nazis, anime catholicism and shock factor gore. why is literally everyone in a trenchcoat and gloves. alucard is the only character that remotely stands out and he’s MIA for three whole episodes

20 y/o me: to be fair, you have to have an extremely open mind to realize that hellsing is actually a self-aware tragicomedy about suffering, redemption, and the unfailing power of the human spirit. a triumph. god bless this big dysfunctional happy family

#hellsing #like personally i have little to zero background knowledge on Christianity beyond the genesis #both of my parents practice Buddhism ideology so its most familiar with me #i like how alucard is a deus ex machina himself and was ended by the same mechanism #i dont really get the schrodinger's cat thing so it makes sense to me to read it in how buddhism explained self awareness #i am aware that i am here therefore i am here #alucard wouldnt be able to do that if he cant focus on being conscious of himself #this is a bit tricky to speak in english for me i might use the wrong word #death of ego or something idk #i have not read nietzsche

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cigarette-room · 1 year ago

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At least one good part abt today is ihnmaims gaining an active fandom apparently

#bad part abt my day is today we were discussing diseases and i was like trying to explain every mechanism because i KNOW the disease but #the professor (surgeon) had to stop me and be like hey listen so you have to be more careful with the terminology you blurt out #because i try to explain but medical terminology is tricky and i accidentally said dilation instead of diastole #which is. bad bc diastole is a thing a healthy heart does while dilation is. a term for a heart sickness but i WAS talking abt diastole #i just said the wrong word and go humbled real bad like i don't know anything #and then i went home and later had a breakdown remembering how much i miss my home and the life i used to live #yay

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fics-lovebot · 7 days ago

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jungkook fic recs - pt. 3

main masterlist

· · ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

pls reblog if you like any of my recs and don´t forget to support authors!❤️

come sit on my lap - ( @euphoricfilter ) pwp, lots of praisingg, they way this is written is good yall, "use me" , “so polite” shUT UPPPP im literally blushing, AND he is also cute at the end?? i hate it heREEE :´)

he has a lot of cum - ( @euphoricfilter ) bf!jk, the title I- , he DOES have a lot of cum, lots of stamina, lots of everYTHING, and on toP of those small details, wdym he wants to see how many times he can cum in you before it´s too full and it starts to spill????? somebody stop this man

riding jungkook´s nose - ( @euphoricfilter ) we´ve ALLL thought about this, and if you haven´t you´re lying, periodt. pRAISINGGG, he´s in a pussy-drunk frenezy, he likes feeling used, he likes getting his hair pulled, he likes getting his face wET, it´s sickenINGGGG goreaditplease

fucking in the gym - ( @euphoricfilter ) this was inspired by that one pic of him and jimin with their back out, I SEE THE VISION, fucking with ceiling mirrors

wicked - ( @noteguk ) smut, incubus!jk, big big corruption kink, lots of dirty ploting and dirty talk, yupppp this is a good one, so detailed, love me a fic that lit makes me see what i´m reading

strings attached (to my heart) - ( @jungkoode ) smut, crack, fluff, IT HAS IT ALLL, spider man au, college au, spider-man!jk x journalist!reader. READ THE TAGS BC ITS GOOD AF, bc wdym you combined sub-loser-desperate jk who also has a noona kink wITH a superhero au??? it´s like you wrote it for me,, (also, this deserves many many more notes imo)

think i need someone older - ( @redcherrykook ) smut, whipped rich older bf!jk (PERIOD!!) x younger!reader. JESUS FUCKING CHRISTTTTTTT!!! no more words needed, this one´s pulled right out of my maladaptive daydreaming folder

fade into you - ( @nmjoo-n ) SMUT, fluff, fwb to lovers au. barista!jk, possessive obsessive toxic lovesick!jk (LETS FUCKING GOOOOOO). this is a whole 2022 masterpiece, they way this is written, and the way jungkook is borderline PSYCOTICH (or in love ig) for her is so hotttttttt. deff one of my favs

this is how you fal in love - ( @jeonqkooks ) fluff, smut, angst if you squint. rockstar!jk au, est relationship. this is beautiful, a 2022 gem. love love love how lengthy and detailed this is

frost impressions - ( @fortunexkookie ) soccer coach!jk, teacher!reader, gamer au, work au, idiots to lovers, one sided pining at first, it´s a longggg one. another 2020 masterpiece, one of my favorite fics out there, he´s so disgustingly smitten with his new coworker that he ends up making a terrible first impression. so so so entertaining and fun to read, jk is silly af lmao, can´t stop putting his foot in his mouth, theres a bunch of cute second hand embarrasment situations

Over The Odds | The Confession - ( @jungk0oksthighs ) ceo jk, sugardaddy jk, jealous bf jk, sugar baby reader, he gets mad and yells bc he is lowkey insecure of her ex but reader is equaly in love. this is a series

wrong time - ( @spideyjimin ) smut, angst, dilf!jk, ceo!jk, exes to lovers, workaholic as a scape mechanism, the one that got away type of stuff but she broke things up first for valid reasons, big big heartache but she´s still the love of his life

don´t blame me - ( @ctrlsht ) sugar daddy!jk, ceo!jk, soft yan!jk, obsessive!jk, student!reader, unhealthy behavior on his part, manipulative behavior on her part, jealousy on both parts, he goes a lil too far but reader is bitchy and annoying, he lit gives her everythinggg she asks for, the man is..creazy about her in a very unhealthy way and she takes advantage of that, toxicc

failed quickie - ( @vminizzle ) cowerker jk, suggestive, they´re about to fucc on an elevator but shit happens, he likes his hair pulled!!1!

someone older - ( @bonny-kookoo ) smut, ceo jk, divorced jk, 30 something yo jk, taehyung has a kid, younger oc, its a nice read, would do it again

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incognit0slut · 5 days ago

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A little death

Softcore In which you provoke his jealousy, and he learns a lot more about himself.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 8.3k…. yeah Content: Jealous spencer, bratty reader, dom!spencer, fingering, edging, overstimulation, squirting again (do NOT look at me i am just a girl), and voyeurism if you squint bc someone overhears them a/n: don't you just looove it when they match each other's freak

Spencer doesn’t get jealous.

Jealousy, he believes, requires a certain level of entitlement. He’s never really had that. Never let himself believe he owed anyone’s affection, let alone their attention when his romantic history is threadbare at best, sparse enough that he could count past relationships on one hand and still have fingers left untouched.

Even calling them relationships feels generous. Fleeting moment of interest sounds more accurate, a handful of clumsy encounters that never made it past the shallow end of connection. False starts, quiet exits. Nothing solid or lasting. Certainly nothing that ever made him feel like he had the right to be possessive — not since he learned, in the cruelest of ways, that love and loss could be spoken in the same breath.

So no, he doesn’t get jealous. He’s never been presumptuous enough to think that someone could be his to lose in the first place.

Yet what he feels right now is something uncomfortably close to it.

It’s inconvenient, very uncharacteristic of him. And when he catches himself spiraling over things that defy reason, he attempts to pin it down with logic. The empirical part of his brain would call this a reaction to perceived threats to his social attachments. A primal response encoded in his DNA for survival and mate retention, which is nothing more than an evolutionary glitch. A relic of human competition.

A defense mechanism.

A biochemical reaction.

But knowing the terminology doesn’t stop the twist in his stomach as he watches the pretty curve of your smile settle on that overgrown boy scout of a man.

And you’re not even his.

Not in any official capacity. Not in any way that grants him the right to feel this way. Still, there’s something aggravating in the notion of another man soaking in your attention.

"I'm serious," a confidently smooth voice declares.

His gaze flicks to the side, just enough to catch Detective Palmer standing a little too close beside you. The same man who had spent the past two weeks slipping in offhand flattery towards your way whenever the opportunity came.

Unprofessional would be a strong adjective to describe what’s happening in this tight space when there’s technically nothing wrong with a little friendly praise. But Spencer has seen enough human interaction — has studied enough human behavior — to know the difference between a compliment offered in good faith and one laced with ulterior motives.

Motives that aren’t as pure as they appear. Surely, you see it. You must see it. He refuses to believe that someone as sharp as you is oblivious to the way Palmer’s shoulder barely brushes yours under the guise of casual proximity. But then you tilt your head and let out the loveliest laugh. A sound Spencer has never been on the receiving end of.

And his vision starts to blur.

“No, you’re not,” you chide. Teasingly, he notes. A hand on your hip, the other clutching a file. You’re currently in the middle of clearing out the desk everyone has been using for the past couple of days.

“I am,” Palmer counters. “Think about it. Steady hours, less travel. You wouldn’t have to worry about flying all over the country.”

“I don’t mind the travel.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice to have some stability?”

“Stability?”

“And a place where your work doesn’t get buried under a mountain of paperwork.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You’d be able to focus on what you do best without all that bureaucratic red tape.”

“Well, I happen to like politics,” you say, slipping a another document onto your growing pile.

“No one likes politics,” the man scoffs lightly. “People tolerate it, and I don’t take you for the kind of person who enjoys tolerating things.”

The prickling sensation burns behind his eyelids now. Spencer can’t decide whether it’s from his contacts settling uncomfortably out of place, or if he’s forgotten to blink while listening to this nonsense. It gets even worse when you shift your weight, subtly pushing your hip against the edge of the table.

He can’t tell if the curve of your mouth is leaning toward a smirk or a frown. “I’m actually more patient than I look.”

Palmer clearly sense an opening. “Patience is one thing, tolerating missed chances is another. Especially when a better opportunity presents itself.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what you’re saying is I should quit my job and settle down in a quiet little town where, oh I don’t know, you’ll take all the credit for my work?”

Even your sarcasm seems to delight the man. “Not at all,” he grins widely. “I’m saying I’d make sure you get all the credit you deserve.”

The stack of papers in his grip slaps against the table with a deliberate thud. Two sets of eyes snap toward him. One pair burning a pointed hole into his skull, and the other narrowing in awareness that someone else is very much listening to the conversation.

Spencer keeps his head down.

“We should discuss this somewhere else,” Palmer proposes, eyeing him once more before shifting his attention back to you. “Tonight. Over dinner.”

His reflex betrays him. His head lifts before he can stop it, eyes finally landing on the man he’s been stubbornly avoiding.

And he immediately wishes he hadn’t. Because Palmer is… pretty decent to look at. Polished. Light, neatly trimmed hair, sharp cheekbones, and a confident set to his jaw that speaks of someone who’s never had to work too hard to hold attention.

He also seems young. Not inexperienced, exactly, but young enough that the difference is painfully noticeable. Young in a way Spencer can’t help but acknowledge, with the easy confidence of someone closer to your age than his own. Closer to the kind of man he imagines people expect you to be with that it would be easy to find you together in one of those chic little restaurants this town probably prides itself on.

But you’re awfully quiet, and he wonders if even half of his existence resides in your mind right now. He finds himself waiting for your answer too, against his better judgment, as he sweeps up stray papers and photographs scattered along the surface.

“Unless… you have someone waiting for you back home?”

His fingers press into the worn edges of the papers and skirts around the table. A quiet shift in orbit as he walks just within the edges of your periphery.

Your gravity pulls him without permission, an invisible thread compelling him into alignment. A cautious step left, another hesitant drift to the right. By the time his shadow spills gently across your shoulders, he isn't sure you’ll acknowledge his presence — or if you’ll pretend not to feel anything at all.

“So, do you?”

You clear your throat, then offer Palmer a shrug.

“No, I don’t.”

He quickly falls off your orbit.

“Perfect,” Palmer chimes, extremely pleased with your answer. “I’ll pick you up at Seven.”

Spencer crosses the short distance toward the door as your eyes follow the taut muscles of his back.

“Sure. Seven it is.”

He stalks out of the room without a word.

Time is supposed to be constant. Linear. A dependable, predictable stream moving forward at exactly the same pace. But it starts to feel uneven after he left the precinct. Minutes stretch themselves thin while seconds snap by in disorienting bursts, turning the hours into something unbearably long and frustratingly fast.

At five fifteen, Spencer steps into his hotel room and heads straight for a cold shower, hoping the water might wash away the tension clinging to his skin. It doesn’t.

At five forty-seven, JJ calls him about the team heading to the local bar for one last night out before flying home tomorrow. He politely declines.

At six twenty-two, he opens War and Peace he had stuffed into his bag for the trip, but the words slip past his focus.

At six thirty-eight, he gives up entirely, his feet pulling him into restless loops across the carpeted floor.

By six five zero hour, he’s already knocking on your hotel room.

It takes exactly forty-two seconds before the latch clicks and the door swings open — then he forgets how to speak.

You’re standing there in a blouse and slacks he’d seen you wear earlier this week. Nothing is out of the ordinary, yet somehow the familiarity feels different. A few buttons at your neckline remain undone. Your hair is styled differently, and though he doesn’t fully grasp the concept of makeup, he notices how your lips are a shade warmer.

There’s no question in his mind that your beauty has always captivated him, but then his eyes catch on the delicate stretch of skin along your cleavage, and suddenly his mouth turns sour.

A deep scowl knots between his brows. “You’re really going?”

Your chin lifts up at the judgement in his voice. “Excuse me?”

“With Palmer. You’re actually planning to go?”

Silence, then you square your shoulders.

“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”

He does. In fact, he has at least half a dozen reasons that are all perfectly logical and justified, but there isn’t a way to voice them without sounding like a jealous fool. So he settles for the simplest objection he can manage.

“You barely know him.”

You’re clearly not impressed by his argument. “He seems nice.”

“You think he’s nice when he’s trying to sell you the idea of staying here?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what he has to offer.”

He can't decide which is worse. The thought of you entertaining another man or that you might actually be considering something bigger than that. A different job. A different city. A whole different life, one that unfolds without him in it. There is no mistaking the tension carving itself across his face.

“Why are you doing this?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Why do you care?”

His breath pulls in sharply through his nose.

A fairly good question, and he can’t think of an answer. At least not one that wouldn't cross a line you've both silently agreed not to cross. He knows the rules with you — he helped make them. Casual. Unattached. Simple in theory, but infinitely complicated in practice. You don’t owe him the space you take up in his thoughts.

If anything, he’s the one who owes you. For letting things be what they are even when it doesn’t always make any sense. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he started taking everything for granted, or when he stopped wondering if you’d stay and started assuming you would.

He realizes how precarious that assumption is. The notion carries his feet forward until he looms over you, close enough to feel the gentle warmth rising from your skin. Close enough to remind him it’s been nearly a month since he’s spent any real time in your proximity. A month defined by long, relentless cases and a tension that hasn’t faded since the night he confronted you for stepping too close to danger.

A danger he thinks hasn’t exactly passed. Not entirely, because the risk isn’t concealed in some reckless threat. It’s in this room.

In the careful distance between your bodies.

In the doubt that lingers between unspoken truths.

In the quiet hesitation of his next breath.

“Because it’s late,” he decides to answer, “and you don’t really know this town.”

A flimsy excuse. One so weak that even he feels embarrassed the second it leaves his mouth.

Your lips twitches. “I think I’ll manage.”

“You don’t know what he’s expecting.”

You fail to hold your disbelief with a tiny scoff. "And you do?"

He knows nothing for certain, only what he suspects when he lets his thoughts stray too far. What he does know is that he’s never been good at expressing his feelings without making it sound accusatory or desperate. And with aggravating clarity, he realizes he’s already toeing that line. The thin line he crosses meekly as he makes the decision to close the door before he can think better of it.

An audible click echoes in the room.

He sees a myriad of emotions travel through your pinched expression. There’s a slight tightening around your eyes, a faint crease forming between your brows. Still, he closes the silver of space between you, drawn by a need he can’t quite articulate and tries to quell your confusion. Skims a wide palm over your arm with more weak excuses on his tongue.

“He’s not good for you.”

Neither is he.

“He doesn't deserve you.”

Neither does he.

It’s irony in its purest form, laid bare unapologetically in its cruelty. He knows he doesn’t have the right to say this. That if he was any better than any other man, any less selfish, he’d be the one stepping aside. Although he’d argue that logic has never done much to stop him when it comes to you.

And you look as conflicted. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards. Stop is all it would take for him to put back the distance. He’d call it a night and walk back to his room even if it left him wondering what he could have done differently.

But the tension in your stance unravels in quiet increments, each taut line of muscle easing under the rough pads of calloused fingers. Though your body relents before your mouth does. That much is clear. Stubborn is the tilt of your chin, the way your lips part to let out words that contradict the softness he feels beneath his hand.

“It's dinner,” you assert. “I can handle myself.”

Your voice comes out softer than expected, and he would pull back if you weren’t leaning toward him a fraction closer. So he hums agreeably in a way that isn’t agreement at all and trails his hand upward, unhurriedly in its journey, until it brushes the base of your throat.

Warm breath fans over his face when he thumbs over your pulse. “I mean it.”

"Mhm.”

He can tell there's very little resolve left in you. Your eyes are hooded, depriving his lips of the attention they were given. The last shred of defiance that kept you upright is gone.

“You do realize you have no right to act like this,” you manage, aiming for composed but landing somewhere closer to breathless. He treats it like permission to flush his body against yours.

“I know.”

"You can’t just… walk in here and go all alpha male on me or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

The term feels absurd the moment it leaves your mouth.

“I’m aware,” he slowly replies, tries to soften his tone.

“You also need to let go of this ridiculous idea that you get to make any decision for me.”

He acknowledges that too, of course. Although it hardly feels like a decision when your body’s already answering for you, leaning closer despite your stubborn protests. His thumb drags along the side of your neck, right over the place where your pulse kicks the hardest.

“Should I leave then?”

He will if you ask him to, without a doubt.

He’ll question his own sanity if it comes to that.

But after painstakingly long seconds, after watching the resolve slowly dim from your dainty eyes, you gradually shake your head — to his utmost delight.

He selfishly grabs your jaw and kisses you.

There’s no time for pleasantries. No time for careful touches when every nerve in his body has been screaming your name.

His lips part like he’s been holding his breath for too long, slotting his tongue against yours while hindering your movements with fingers holding your cheek, which is unnecessary because you give in without hesitation. Wholeheartedly, like you always do. Surrendering to the rhetorical desperation of a taste you haven’t had in a month.

He tastes like smoldering tension. He tastes of a man fighting a feeling he can't seem to agree with, even as every stolen breath betrays him.

The very breath you drink — humid air thick with shared saliva. Wet in every sense. Glossed on every inch. Your mouth, your teeth, your chin. Spreading a different kind of wetness between your thighs the moment his other hand trails along the waistband of your pants.

He dips his fingers inside, bypassing layers of fabric until your mouth falls open in shock at how suddenly deep those long fingers delve between your folds.

He presses his middle finger inside you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, nipping at his lower lip, and he chastises you by inserting a second finger.

You’re not even that wet. Damp, preferably. Enough to let him in, not enough to mask the awkward stretch. Although that hardly registers when he’s too aware of the tender patch of nerves he knows will have you drenching his fingers in seconds.

You melt against his chest instantly, and it’s very much embarrassing to admit how quickly you always fold for him. One moment you're fighting off his petty arguments and the next thing, your hips undulate to chase friction, grinding down into the curl of his hand with no shame at all. Your pride barely has time to protest before it’s drowned out by the wet squelch of his fingers working you open.

You're being absolutely ravaged. He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can reach, while his fingertips press into your walls as deeply as your pants allow. The confinement barely seems to matter — it’s enough to make your knees buckle, worse when he picks up the pace. Faster than usual, more urgent than his usual rhythm when he asks for sex. He normally takes his time upfront, teases, tempts.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s ragged. Focused.

You notice it in the tension of his forearms, the way they flex with each thrust of his hand, how he moves with a kind of voracity that could be mistaken for hate if you didn’t know him better.

But hate is too strong of an emotion to ever explain the scorching jealousy radiating from him.

"Don’t—"

He curls his fingers upward.

"Go—"

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"Don't want you to see him."

Your legs shake, the bones melted beneath your skin as he reduces you to this pliant mess. You don't know what to say to that — you're not even sure it's something you could put into words without making a complete fool out of yourself. So instead you shift, just enough to rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm.

Because that's what he wants anyway. It’s what he’s offering, in the only language he knows. Touch, control, denial. And you’ll take it as long as it distracts you from having to respond to his admission.

But it’s then that he stops moving his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still.

“Stay.”

You ball your fist in his shirt. “Your hand is inside my pants in the middle of a goddamn hotel room. I’m not going anywhere.”

You can practically feel the tension roll off his shoulders in waves, but then he pulls his fingers out, and a wounded sound slips past your lips before you can stop it.

“Spencer…”

“Come on, let’s move to the bed.”

You’re grateful he’s holding you up, because your legs feel one good shudder away from crumbling. Every step is clumsy and floaty, like your body’s lagging half a second behind your mind, as if sensation is still catching up to motion.

You don’t even remember your clothes hitting the floor, only that his hands were everywhere. Your shirt comes off. Then your pants. The cold air bites your thighs, cool against the heat of your skin. By the time he sinks onto the bed and tucks you between his legs, you’re stripped completely bare.

The soft cotton of his shirt clings to the sweat rising on your back, and you squirm when a certain hard pressure brushes your ass. This isn’t the position you expected to be in, slotted between his thighs while being the only one lacking any fabric at all. But you don’t complain. You melt into the way his large hands slip between your arms to cup the soft weight of your breasts. Your body goes slack as he rolls stiff nipples between the rough pads of his fingers and the smooth press of his thumbs.

You’re nothing short of liquid when his lips brush your ear and tells you to open your legs, a command you follow as easily as breathing. By the time his hand travels between the supple skin of your thighs, you’re already pool of aching heat.

Every nerve in your body seems to funnel down to that one point. Your clit swells shamelessly beneath his fingertips, and the sheer sensitivity makes your head spin. You feel it pulsing, and keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts to wet the rest of your sex, dragging his fingers through every swollen ridge.

You shudder when a finger prods your hole.

But he does nothing with it. Just stays there motionless, making you keenly aware of how empty you still are.

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, glossy lips finding the side of his neck, tongue dragging along the skin just to feel the way his throat bobs beneath you. Your way of pleading. A signal he usually listens to. Only this time he leaves your cunt untouched, choosing instead to let his fingers tap lightly on your clit. He saviors the stiffness under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets.

You feel quite the opposite.

The scrape of his stubble burns against your mouth, but it’s nothing compared to the spark of frustration curling tight in your belly.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

He is. Even he can admit to that—though he’d rather bite his tongue than call it what it is.

“Define purpose.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t play semantics with me. Is this about him?”

He hates how easily you read him.

Hates more that you’re not wrong.

“Thought we were already past that,” you observe.

He doesn’t say anything, but the tension rippling beneath your lips speaks volumes. You suck the exposed flesh on his neck where his little mole resides.

“What—” you huff, words trembling as starts to l stroke your puffy little clit, “did you finally decide I needed reminding? Is that what you’re doing?”

Is that what this is? He didn’t have an exact definition in mind when he started this. No plan, no clear intent, just the magnetic pull that always exists between the two of you. He was going to touch you the way he always does when he can’t help himself.

But then the coil in his chest tightens again. The image of you with that smug excuse of a man still clung to him like smoke — too much smile handed to someone who didn’t earn it. Which is why his touch became measured, his rhythm a shy satisfaction that isn’t enough to break you open, but close enough to remind you where your body fits best.

His focus leaves your clit and shifts behind you, hooks your legs over his to lock them securely in place with his calves. The slight flare of your pupils doesn’t go unnoticed before he cocks his head.

“What if I am?”

Your smile reminds him of a match just before it lights. “Are you punishing me right now?”

The flame in your eyes sears low, and he’s not sure he should play with fire.

Punishment wouldn’t be the right word for it anyway. There’s no retribution in what he feels. No malice, no need to correct. Hurting you is the last thing he wants to do. But you’ve placed the match right in his hand, and if you ask him to strike it, he doubts he’ll be able to stop the burn. It’ll be consuming, a wildfire racing through every carefully drawn boundary to smoldering ashes scattered between your bodies.

He’ll scorch every inch of you with the excuse you gave him until there’s nothing left but smoke and the heat of his name in your mouth.

“Is that what you want?”

You wiggle under the weight of his hand. “You know I’ll take whatever you give me.”

True enough, but what he wants to hear the need blooming along every frayed nerve in your body when you can’t seem to stop yourself from grinding your hips as he trails down your inner thigh.

“Be more specific,” he presses. “Tell me what exactly.”

You huff and try to reach for his lips. “Want you to make me cum, old man.”

A gentle slap falls onto your clit.

“Without the attitude.”

He swallows your gasp as you jolt at the shallow sting. “Fuck—okay,” you mutter, trying to keep a shred of control even as your knees inch further apart. “Will you make me cum?”

“Where are your manners?” He hums, and drags a long finger along your clit with infuriating patience. “I think you can do better than that.”

You groan and let yourself sink further against his chest. “You’re seriously gonna edge me over politeness?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just draws another excruciatingly slow circle over your sensitive nub so light it leaves your breath faltering. He counts the seconds in your sighs, measures the quiver of your hips, then meets your increasingly desperate gaze with eyes that fall short of the jeer in your voice, because while your body pleads, he knows you have something sharp tucked up your sleeve to use against him.

And while he’s weak to the way you’ve always twisted him, he’s even weaker to the things you do without trying. The act you play so effortlessly. That faint, practiced whine you let slip just before you wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes.

“Please, Spencer?” You whimper. “Will you please make me cum?”

The sarcasm drips so thick he could wring it from your tongue. He wonders if he should drink every last drop and savor the sweetness that coats your words, but the sudden shrill of your phone cuts through the air, its screen lighting up on the far edge of the bed.

You both glance toward it simultaneously as he presses his mouth to your ear. “Are you expecting someone?”

The laugh you let out is incredulous. “I was until you decided to barge in here and lock me in place.”

His eyes drag over the length of your body tucked between his legs, knees conveniently hooked on each of his thighs. He watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest, how your pulse flutters beneath his palm resting across your collarbones. He’s holding every trembling muscle of you still as his other hand swirls over your aching clit, yet his mind seethes with the memory of why he had decided to knock on your door in the first place.

It’s that flicker of spite that has him reaching for your phone, and sure enough, the word Detective glares at him across the screen followed by that grating name — those syllables that shouldn’t hold weight but dig like splinters all the same.

“He’s probably waiting for me in the lobby,” you jest, and jealousy, he realizes, is something he’s entirely capable of feeling. Even though he’d suspected it all night, no amount of logic can dull the ache that comes with the confirmation.

It isn’t just a primal response encoded in his DNA for mate retention that drives his actions.

It’s far more complex than a mere defense mechanism, woven with threads of genuine emotions that goes beyond the physical.

And biochemistry can’t explain the visceral satisfaction he feels when your body softens the moment he finally buries two fingers deep to the knuckle.

It doesn't account for the way you shudder around him, for the helpless roll of your hips that tells him he's exactly where you want him to be. He observes the tension in your jaw falter, the way your breath catch in a rhythm he now knows as well as his own. But even that doesn’t fully settle the unfamiliar thing gnawing inside him. So he clutches your phone and presses the device into your open palm, even as his other hand remains buried between your damp thighs.

“You should answer it,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Tell him you won’t be coming down.”

“What?” you heave. “I can’t answer right now.”

“Sure you can, it’s the polite thing to do. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He hooks his middle and ring finger against that unbearably soft spot along your walls, and a choked sound punches out of you before you can stifle it while the insistent buzz of your phone continues to mock you.

“Go on, answer it.”

“He’s—I—” you stammer, trying to summon some coherent protest but your thoughts are hopelessly scattered, all mush and molten heat. A free hand reaches back to clutch at his thigh. “I don’t—fuck, stop doing that. I can’t think straight.”

“Do you really want me to stop?”

The lull that follows is cruel. His fingers slow to a near crawl, and the absence of intensity makes the growing ache so much worse. You roll your hips once, twice, trying to urge him without giving him the satisfaction of words, but he stays painfully still as the ringtone on your phone keeps hissing, then it stops. A brief silence. And just as your heart starts to settle, it begins again, that repetitive chime clawing at your nerves.

You grit your teeth, shame burning under your skin as your shoulders slump.

The word scrapes along the roof of your mouth before you can stop them.

“…no.”

“Answer the call,” he insists, lips pressed on the side of your flushed face. “The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll let you finish.”

You glare at the phone in your hand before lifting the device to your ear, and the moment the line opens, his fingers resume their rhythm. Perfectly timed with the soft “Hello?” on the other end.

You inhale a sharp breath.

“Detective... Palmer?”

Your brows screw in a wince at how your voice pitched higher than intended.

“Yeah, hey, I’m calling to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight. I’m in the lobby.”

You clench your jaw, swallowing a moan so hard it burns your throat. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out, “I—I got held up.”

“Held up?” Palmer’s voice tightens with worry. “Are you with someone? Everything alright?”

Spencer’s lips skim softly beneath your ear, warm breath ghosting over your pulse just before he plunges his fingers deep enough to send your eyes scattering upward. Your vision blurs, the dimly lit room tilting dangerously around you. You don’t even realize you haven’t responded until he nips gently at your neck with an amused smile tattooed on your skin.

“You might want to answer him.”

You blink hard.

“I—yes. I mean no—I mean…” you gasp, arching sharply as the heel of his hand rolls against your clit in tandem with his fingers. “Everything’s fine. I just… I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching thin as you struggle to breathe evenly.

“You sure?” Palmer asks. It’s hard not to miss the sudden edge of suspicion in his tone, carefully tucked behind forced concern. “You sound a little off.”

You don’t even have the energy to care how obvious you’re being. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away, pressing your forehead into the scratch of unshaven jaw to regain some semblance of dignity. You'd have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this pathetic, strung out on the edge of pleasure with someone’s fingers buried deep inside you while another man’s voice lingers in your ear. Your pride, what little of it remains, is dangling by a thread. And pride is the one thing you always thought you could keep intact around Spencer. He’s a smart man, observant. But soft in all the places that made you believe you could stay one step ahead.

Apparently you’d underestimated him. Gravely. You forgot that the same man who knows the weight of every word you’ve ever spoken also knows the weight of your silence, and you’re humiliated by how easily he can reduce you to this pliant mess. Even more humiliated by how badly you want him to keep going while your name abruptly echoes in your headspace.

Spoken by someone else entirely.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

There’s nothing but weakness sitting in your throat. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.”

Another beat of silence. Then you feel the pointed brush of his nose along your shoulder before gentle teeth latch onto your skin.

“You should get some rest then,” Palmer continues to press, the same way Spencer’s fingers keeps digging into that soft patch of flesh inside. “I’ll check in on you in the morning.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you still flying back tomorrow?”

“…yeah.”

“How about breakfast—”

The relentless pressure of gruff fingers buried in your cunt sends your heels kicking against the mattress.

“I-I’m sorry, Detective, but I really need to go. It was nice working with you.”

You barely manage to hear his reply before your phone slips from your grip, landing between the sheets with a muted thud. In the back of your fucked-out little brain, you figure the call must have ended by now — surely he would have cut it off. But the timer keeps increasing. The quiet count of seconds continue to tick away unbeknownst to you.

But not to Spencer. He’s keenly aware of the numbers climbing on the screen.

00:50

00:51

00:52

By the 01:00 mark, he’s already made up his mind.

And he’s not proud of it — as to every touch he’s given you tonight. He’ll call this as instinct, or maybe inevitability, anything but what it truly is: selfish.

Selfish in the way he rams his fingers back and forth inside you, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit with unrelenting force. Selfish in the pace he sets himself with. Selfish in how he reads your body like it’s his to interpret, all written in a language only he claims fluency in.

The curve of your spine bows as you lean back helplessly, mouth parted in a perfect, silent “O”. Your eyes are glassy and fixed on the dull ceiling above, as if it might offer some kind of reprieve from the flood of pleasure he’s practically dragging out of you.

And somehow he’s managed to drag you right to the brink without letting you topple over the edge.

You don’t know whether you want to cry or come. Your hips jerk to chase more pressure, more friction, more anything, as your lips part in a desperate sound that’s slurred and barely audible to his ears.

“What was that?”

“Wanna cum,” you gasp around humid breath. “Please.”

He peers at your phone still laying innocently on the bed, the call blinking at 01:24. “A bit louder.”

You choke on a whimper, and for the first time since you’ve tangled your limbs with him for the past few months, your pride isn’t enough to hold you together.

“Please,” you beg, sounding a little pathetic. “S-Spencer—please, need to cum.”

He makes a satisfied sound of his own the moment he feels you leak around his fingers. “Look at that,” he mutters, watching the slick sheen of your arousal coating even to his wrist. “You’re making a mess.”

“Fuck—yes yes, right there.” Your hips buck shamelessly into his hand. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. Please…”

He can’t even if he wanted to. You’re chanting his name over and over again like it’s the only word you know, a mantra that sends ripples of heat low and thick in his gut. His cock throbs painfully against his zipper, but he pushes his own desperate need to the back of his mind, focusing entirely on his fingers plunging in and out of your poor swollen hole until he feels you clench helplessly around him.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this helpless. The sharp edge of your smart mouth is gone, melted away under the rhythm he’s carved into your body. There’s a flicker of something like pity in his chest, because even if he doesn’t feel like the best version of himself right now, he still doesn’t want to push you too far beyond your limits.

So he starts to pull his fingers from your soaked, fluttering cunt.

Or at least he tries. Because the second he begins to slip away, you grip his forearm with surprising strength, pushing him firmly back between your spread thighs.

God forbid he stops now.

He pulls his legs apart just to drag yours along for better leverage, and focuses on the wet hood of your clit. Three fingers stroke in fast motions, the delicate skin folding and bunching while you weakly claw around his wrist. He wonders if you’re still conscious of the noises you’re making, or if the tears pooling at the corners of your eyes have blurred away any sense of awareness. He wipes them off with a slow drag of his lips and savors the way your clit tense even more under the pressure of his hand, the stiff kink of nerves coiling tighter to its limit.

It only takes a few more flicks until your second orgasm tumbles right through you. Wrecks you out completely — back arching, thighs clamping around his wrist in a futile attempt to slow him down. He probably should, you’re already an overstimulated mess of body fluid. Arousal coating your thighs, drool catching at your mouth, sweat beading along your hairline.

Purges of sensation seeps through every corner of your pore, but now he wonders how far he can wring you dry. His stubble scratches your already blotchy cheek, “One more, give me one more.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing.

“Spence—” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “I-I can’t—Stop.”

“You can,” he hums, and presses a soft peck to your jaw. “I know you can.”

You slowly shake your head.

But Spencer has been in this position too many times that he understands the precise way your body folds when it’s too much. The lack of safe word you both agreed on tells him you’re still greedy for more despite how far gone you look.

“Red?” He asks, doubling his effort on your clit.

You blink through heavy lids, and he presses his mouth to your the shell of your ear.

“Come on, answer me,” he urges. “I’ll stop if you say the word.”

Your nails clutch at his skin. The press of your eyelashes clamping shut accompanies another quiet sob, followed by a firmer shake of your head.

Your answer isn’t clear enough, he tries to question you again.

“Red?”

The frantic rhythm of your heartbeat kisses your chest, and slowly, very weakly, you guide him back to your hole with a wet sigh.

He can’t stop himself from letting out a torn sound that rumbles in his throat. A noise that feels like it extends from a place so deep it feels unfamiliar. You shouldn’t have this much power over him. Shouldn’t be able to tear down every carefully built barrier and unravel him to his very bones with nothing more than the tremble of your thighs and his name clinging onto your lips. Lips that would normally spit fire are incredibly soft as he chases them with his own.

They’re still burning, nonetheless.

It sears through him the moment your mouths connect, a slow spreading heat that starts in his marrow and flows outward like molten lava, sliding down his arms until it lingers at his fingertips where you’re unduly scorching in his palm.

You feel it too, don’t you? It’s impossible not to with the way his hand glides in harsh motions between your legs, building a friction that’s equal parts brutal and addictive. So addictive that you find yourself chasing a numb, blissful escape in the ceaseless waves of sensations that threaten to wash away every coherent thought.

Your toes curl.

Your stomach tightens.

Speckles of liquid spatters across the sheets the more he drags his fingers through your dripping, swollen cunt, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.

He greedily swallows each gasp in his mouth, tastes your pleasure in every pant.

“Oh fuck! Fuckfuckfuck—”

A sudden rush spills over his hand. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot into the thighs of his pants where your legs are still slung over him. He couldn’t care less about the fabric sticking to his skin, or the growing discomfort of wet clothes when it’s nothing compared to the discomfort written your pinched brows. He’d actually think you were slipping into another dimension from the way your features crumple if it weren’t for the ghost of a smile curling lazily at your mouth.

He slightly leans back and studies your profile. You’re clearly out of it, but there’s no mistaking the ecstasy etched into every line of your pretty face. A little strange, given everything he’s done to you. Even more out of place is the slurred compliment you offer after a long, dreamy sigh.

“You’re getting too good at that,” you mumble, cheek softly pressed to the ridge of his shoulder blade.

Your voice is uncharacteristically sweet, but he can’t let it stroke his ego when he catches the black screen of your phone lying forgotten on the bed. A quiet unblinking thing, and guilt starts to curl in the space where pride tried to form, souring any sense of satisfaction before it ever fully sinks.

He absently runs a hand along your inner thigh and swallows the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

It earns him a puzzled frown.

You try to blink the drowsiness from your eyes, unsure if you heard him right or if your mind is still swimming too deep to trust the shape of words. But the tight pull of muscle beneath your cheek gives him away, which deepens your confusion because an apology doesn’t seem to belong here. Nor does it fit easily with the usual rhythm of wandering hands and biting retorts that define your interactions.

“Where is this coming from?” You ask.

He hesitates, his hand resting loosely on your thigh, then lets out a long exhale. “I’m not sure when the line cut off.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a high chance he heard… most of it, or enough to know that you’re not alone.”

It’s your turn to play semantics with him. “Define high chance.”

“Somewhere between eighty and ninety percent.”

That’s an oddly specific high range. It’s precise enough to make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.

Your eyes touches his, so close now you can see the enlarged pupils eating at the brown irises. You might think what you’re doing is profiling, but you know it’s more about noticing the little details you’ve come to memorize over time. The subtle shift in his jawline, the tension at the corners of his lips. The patterns are familiar they make his thoughts almost transparent.

And somehow you can read his mind, though you need to confirm if what you’re sensing is mutual, if the unspoken words you’re catching are the same ones circling behind his glossy eyes.

“Were you aware the call kept going the whole time?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and the pause alone feels like an answer on its own. Your brows rise sharply.

“So it was intentional.”

“No. Yes.” He looks away. “Maybe?”

You don’t say anything at first, save for the slow breath you draw in through your nose.

You try to vivisect your own mind while he sits uncharacteristically still, attempting to determine why the possibility of him leaving the line connected doesn’t disturb you as much as it probably should. Why, despite the implications, part of you isn’t shocked.

The answer eludes you, buried perhaps deeper than you care to dig. You’d already tasted the bite of his jealousy long before he stepped foot into your room tonight. Felt it in the taut set of his shoulders whenever Palmer so much as looked at you when the three of you shared space. Even after he’d folded you into his arms and wrung a quake of orgasms from your body, you could still sense it humming under his skin.

But the extent to which this jealousy has driven him to is what baffles you. It’s as startling as the faint thrill fluttering traitorously through your heart.

You huff out a short, disbelieving laugh. “All because he asked me out to dinner?”

It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably, guides your legs together until your knees touches and rakes his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

Two apologies in one night — a record, as far as he’s concerned.

Yet it feels like he’s only skimming the surface of what you deserve.

The intricacy of your relationship has always defied easy definitions, but even in the mess of it, he’s never stopped respecting you. While he often questions your judgment or disputes the way your opinions cut so differently from his, you’re nothing less of smart, and perhaps this is where your clever mind finally puts a stop to this nonsense. Drawing a line he’s long since blurred.

He wouldn’t even blame you. He’d decide the same outcome if he were in your shoes. After all, he knows he’s too much of a burden, too wired for disaster to offer you anything but chaos. And no matter how tempting chaos can be, it never leads to anything good.

Goodness, as he’s come to accept, is far from his reality.

Tonight only serves as another proof of how right his presumption is.

The dampness from his wet slacks slides across even wetter sheets as he moves, a clammy sensation that replicates the sweat beading along his palms. His arms loosen from where they’d caged you in, falling away with a hesitant drag until he finally touches your gaze. Your eyes are already honed in on him, but there’s no trace of animosity in those sharp depths. No shards malice. He doesn’t even discern any hint of anger. Your face is soft, head tipped the slightest degree, but it’s the faint curl of your lips — the barest hint of a smile — that truly undoes him.

Along with the trace of fingers placed over his heart. He’s sure you can feel its wild rhythm beating through the thin fabric.

“Thought jealousy wouldn’t look good on you,” you slowly declaim, thumb idly tracing little circles around a button. “I’m starting to believe it does.”

His throat scrapes like sandpaper.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. Your fingers worry a stray thread over the seam of his shirt like you’re stitching together all the wrong parts of him as if it makes them right. It’s disorienting, and he can’t decide whether your soft words and even softer touch align with the conclusion already forming in his mind. A conclusion so unlikely that it twists every time he tries to pin it down.

Because if you truly accepted his jealousy, it would mean his worst impulses weren’t entirely unwelcome. It would also validate the possessive instinct he’s buried to claim you as his. And that, in turn, would feed the dangerous notion that he’s entitled to you in ways he has no right to be.

But you’re still smiling, and he’s just a man. A man whose logical brain stands no chance against the delicate curve of your mouth.

The right course of action would be prying the truth between those softly spoken words. Wisdom dictates caution, but fear grips him more fiercely than the cold hand of reason ever could. Terrified that one wrong placed question might send you retreating behind walls he’s only managed to breach, and that dread pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds him in silence as he rides the comfort of your satiation like it grants him the access to stay.

Again, he’s selfish.

Yet it’s a ruinous habit — one that slips over him as easily as breath. Too easy to indulge when you’re letting him with no objection.

You don’t even flinch when he gathers you onto his lap.

Not a single word of protest when his lips touches your hair.

"She sought death on a queen-sized bed." A Little Death—The Neighbourhood

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