#and you're like whatever it's not a big deal

[iamthatonefangirl]

So I’m not completely sure how requests work but I NEED a fic where the reader like gets into an argument with the winter soldier about something small or big like how he never opens up to her (whatever you prefer) and then some HATE sex after (not really hate just frustrated yk)

disconnect - nsfw winter soldier

I received a few asks that inspired me to develop a story combining them. this is my interpretation of them.

pre-established relationship. if you're new here, there's a mention of a prior event.

disclaimer: fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated. dark/sad themes, similar to depictions of depression. read at your own discretion.

~~~

it's stupid, really.

the mud boot tracks all over the entryway when you get home. the huge disaster area the kitchen is.

is it really that difficult to not leave a mess everywhere?

you make your way to the bedroom and drop your bag somewhere on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed to chuck off your shoes and jacket.

you sit there for a moment, head buried in your hands.

the weight of your situation gets to you more often than not. a lot of those thoughts in your head go unsaid for a number of reasons, particularly because he doesn't have the emotional capacity to care, in your opinion.

is this really the life you thought you'd end up living?

if you wanted to quit working, you could. he brings in more than plenty.

and you'd never have to worry about being sexually frustrated a day in your life.

is that really the sum total of your relationship?

you let out a sigh.

you feel stuck.

~~~

he comes into the bedroom ten minutes later, fresh out of the shower, covered in water from head to toe minus the towel wrapped around his waist.

he goes straight for the bed, lying down on the fresh sheets, soaking them.

"seriously?" you ask, looking up at him, exasperated at this point.

he tilts his head in your direction and gives you a blank stare as though he has no clue what you're talking about.

you take a deep breath and shove down your anger. he's been gone for a week, cut him some slack, you tell yourself.

"everything go okay?" you ask.

you don't want to know the gory details, and he wouldn't tell you, anyways. his face contorts, giving you a disgusted look as though you're crazy for even asking.

he proceeds to shove his hands behind his head, closing his eyes to get some rest.

another deep breath.

"are you hungry?" you offer. the mess in the kitchen tells you that he's not, but you're seriously trying here.

he lets out a low grunt, which you take to mean 'no.'

"can you stay awake for five minutes to fucking talk to me?" you say, anger rising in your chest as you struggle to keep your head straight.

"not talking to you about work," he grumbles, not even opening his eyes.

"clearly, you're not talking to me at all! fuck, I mean, when do you ever?" you yell, standing and walking over to the side of the bed next to where he's laying.

in your anger, you grab his arm and roughly yank it out from under his head, surprising him. his eyes shoot open and he glares up at you as though you've just personally offended him.

"you never fucking talk to me! I- I don't even know if you like me! it's like you just live in my apartment so you can fuck me whenever you want!" you yell at him. your emotions are getting the better of you, your insecurities and your anger twisting in your head. you're completely helpless to stop your mouth from speaking them into reality.

not a word in response. his face is completely devoid of any emotion.

"I don't even know why I expect anything different from you," you scoff. "you're a heartless motherfucker. you don't even care about me."

you feel so empty inside. all the sacrifices you've made, all the times you've cried over the fact that you can't just be normal, all because of what he does for a living, who he is.

all while having to stomach the nausea of simply knowing why you have to keep him a secret.

it's too much to deal with anymore.

he watches as you drag an empty duffel bag out of the closet and begin throwing various items of clothing inside it. it takes a few moments, but it finally clicks in his head: you're leaving. and he doesn't know when, or if, you'll be back.

he stands, grabbing your arm as carefully as he can, stopping you from continuing to pack. "no. stay," he tells you. he sounds so calm, his voice is void of its usual sternness.

he's only calm because he's panicking inside.

you take his calm demeanor to mean that he genuinely does not give a fuck.

"get off me. I'm leaving," you tell him, pulling your arm away from his grasp. that's all you can say, because that's all you know right now. you have no plans for where you're going or when you're coming back.

if you're coming back.

you shove a few more things in your bag as your eyes tear up.

what has your life come to?

~~~

the door slams behind you on your way out, shaking the whole apartment. eerie silence follows.

no sounds of pans clattering in the kitchen. no music blaring while you shower. no keyboard clicking while you work. no more of your laughing as you watch videos on your phone.

no more you.

all there is is dead silence.

he used to live in the silence. he took comfort in it; he'd be able to hear a threat coming from a mile away as long as he lived in the silence. it was his way of protection, his entire way of life.

it doesn't have that comforting effect anymore.

because now?

he's alone.

now, alone, in the silence he once reveled in, he roams the apartment in contemplation. he sees everything he didn't see before.

the mess he left everywhere, destroying the effort you put in every day to keep a tidy home.

but more importantly? he sees the disconnect. the stark contrast between your carefulness and his tendency to act as a bull in a china shop opens his eyes to reality.

he always saw you as a team.

but now?

he realizes that you're not.

you're normal. he isn't.

he never could be.

~~~

your best bet for now is to go to a friend's place, you think. you sob your eyes out as you sit in the driver's seat of your car, and you come up with a lie that's at least semi-believable.

you take a few deep breaths as you click her contact on speed-dial.

"hey, so you'll never believe my luck," you begin, trying to hide your sniffling from the microphone. "my building is infested with rats. I don't know how long it'll be until they've dealt with it. at least a week, probably. do you think I could spend a few nights at your place?"

your voice is choppy as you speak, and it's clear you've been crying, but she doesn't question it. she gives you the 'okay' to come over, and you hang up quickly before the tears start again.

that's how you end up sleeping on her couch that night, sobbing silently into your hoodie as you try to determine what the hell you're supposed to do now.

for so long, you've put up with his bullshit, kept his secret, kept your mouth shut, all for one reason: you love him.

but he's not capable of loving anyone.

~~~

for a while, the feeling of isolation doesn't bother him. all he feels is indifference.

yet as he finally cleans up after himself, the ache in his chest begins. he almost wonders if he's having a heart attack; he's never felt this before.

yes, he has.

he freezes in place, the memory coming to him. he injured you, once, purely by accident. that's when he's felt this helplessness, this emptiness, this deep-seated pain in his chest.

guilt?

he's not sure.

he kneels on the cold hard tile of the entryway, not bothering to put on longer pants or a towel to protect his knees as he wipes up the mud he tracked inside. he doesn't deserve that comfort.

he lays in bed alone that night, mind empty. sleep never finds him.

the following morning, before the sun has risen, he makes a decision.

he opens his bank account and navigates to the most recent transfer, forwarding it back to the sender with one message: deal's off. busy.

~~~

the next morning, you wake up, still feeling terribly nauseous. you look in the bathroom mirror to find your eyes are puffy and bloodshot from crying.

you never should've gotten involved with a cold-hearted killer.

every bone in your body is saying to leave. get out of New York, quit your job, leave him and this whole life behind.

instead, you make a cup of coffee and force some yogurt down your throat before going to work.

you're up early, and don't care to deal with the traffic driving further into the city, so you might as well take the train.

~~~

he has absolutely no clue where you are.

he knows none of the addresses of your friends where you might have gone, not even a single one of their names.

if you didn't have to work, he wouldn't even be sure that you were still in the state.

work.

he doesn't even know the address of your workplace. he has a vague sense of the name of the company, how hard can it be to find?

so that's where he starts.

he camps out down a side street near your office, giving him a narrow field of vision to the entrance while staying hidden. it's the end of the workday, you should be coming out soon.

normally, scouting out a target is easy. he takes a short amount of time to watch them, determine their routines, and find the best course of action to take them out in the most efficient way possible.

there's always a plan, an end goal there. here?

he has no plan. there is no end goal.

for now, he needs to know where you're staying. so he watches and waits for you to come out of the one place where he can count on being able to find you.

he's not prepared for the pang of some unfamiliar emotion that he feels when he sees you come out of the building. you look exhausted; clearly, you didn't sleep last night, same as him.

you still look perfect.

he assumes you're heading to the parking lot, and he realizes he didn't think this far ahead. he doesn't have a fucking car, how is he supposed to follow you to find out where you're going?

he would never make this kind of bullshit mistake on a job.

he's scanning the area, trying to find the most inconspicuous car he can find that he thinks he might be able to hotwire-

you walk right past the parking lot.

he begins to trail you from across the street, mind working through all the possible answers as to where you're going. for now, his focus is keeping his eyes on you at all times.

he refuses to acknowledge the way his chest hurts even more as he follows you down the street and into the train station.

he hates when you take the train, hence why you always drive. to him, the train isn't safe. there's too many variables, too many things could go wrong. today, though, it works to his advantage.

all he can do for now is get on the train car behind you and wait to see where you get off at.

~~~

you're so tired, it's probably for the best you didn't drive today, lest you wanted to accidentally total your car by falling asleep at the wheel.

you want nothing more than to go home to him.

you don't. you get off the train and walk into the first bar you see.

it's after the workday, just past 6pm on a Tuesday, so it's packed, full of both blue- and white-collar workers in need of a drink.

you sit at the bar with the rest of the men as you all contemplate your life choices. you drink way too much, consuming more alcohol than is safe for you to have in your system while walking back.

oh well.

as you walk in the darkness, your head feels heavy, your body warm from the alcohol. you're being reckless, you know you are.

you don't have it in you to care. you feel like your entire life is being ripped apart at the seams, and it's all your fault. you're aware of the reality; you shouldn't ask for more than he can give. that's not fair to him.

no. this isn't fair to you.

~~~

he hates every fucking second of this. you're acting stupid, putting yourself in danger, getting drunk in public while operating under the assumption that you're all alone on these dark streets.

is this how you feel every day? do you feel alone even when he's there?

is he nothing more than a nuisance to you, a reminder of all your fears and all your lost dreams rolled into one?

at least he knows he's there to protect you.

to him, you were his savior.

but to you, he's nothing more than a ball and chain around your ankle.

his chest grows even tighter.

once you get inside the place you're apparently staying at, he relaxes somewhat. you're inside, you're safe.

that means nothing to him. to him, you're only safe within the confines of your own home. you're only safe when you're with him.

does he make you feel unsafe?

he finds another dark alley to hole up in. he's not going anywhere, not going home, not sleeping until you've got this figured out.

~~~

days go by. he learns your friend's schedule, learns the area, learns that you're drinking every day after work.

he knows he doesn't have the right to approach you. he'd lose you for good if he did, he thinks.

except on the fourth day of you being gone, after all these sleepless nights of him sitting on the cold, hard ground, you don't go into work. he watches your friend leave, but not you.

something's wrong.

in the back of his head, he hears your voice from your fight, if he could even call it a fight, saying,

"I don't even know if you like me!"

"you don't even care about me."

the words float around his mind, amplifying the tightness in his chest by 100 times.

that's it. he's done waiting, done watching you like you're a target, done pretending like you're both not miserable. he's done pretending he doesn't care.

~~~

you don't go into work on Friday.

you've spent all week ignoring your problems, ignoring the nausea in your stomach, drinking so much alcohol that you're lucky you don't pass out in the street, alone.

it's time to make a decision.

you don't get up from the couch until mid-morning, getting up to take a shower before heading to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

as you finish preparing your drink, staring down into the mug, you think you hear something in the distance. but the noise is so faint, you attribute it to your lack of sleep and food. you're fine, there's nothing there.

you hear it again, louder this time, and you turn towards where you hear the noise coming from-

from behind you, a hand slips over your mouth, and an arm wraps itself around your waist. you're about to panic when you hear the figure speak,

"it's me."

you let yourself relax against him. he scared the absolute shit out of you, making you fear for your fucking life, but you don't care. he's here.

but then your anger returns with a vengeance.

you put all your weight into throwing yourself forward, out of his grasp, and he lets go.

"how dare you!" is the first thing you say, and then you turn to face him.

woah.

if you thought you looked like shit from lack of sleep, it was nothing compared to how he looked.

you pause your yelling at him for a moment to take in the fact that he looks so tired he might be ready to collapse, that he looks like he hasn't showered or eaten in days.

you push past your worry and begin again, your anger boiling over as you continue yelling.

"how do you know I'm here? have you been fucking following me?"

he forces himself to speak.

"yes."

you scoff. of course he has.

"I'm not a child! I'm a fully grown adult, James!" you yell.

"then why the hell have you been acting like you're a goddamn child?" he yells back.

you've never heard him raise his voice like this before.

"you could have gotten yourself killed. you're lucky I was there. you did everything wrong, against how I taught you to keep yourself safe!"

your entire body is vibrating with the range of emotions you feel right now. you're so pissed off at him, but you've finally gotten him to speak to you. you hate that he's been watching you like his prey all week, but it means that maybe, in his eyes, you're worth losing sleep over.

you both stand there for a minute as you delay responding. your hair is soaking through your pajama shirt, which you realize as you stand there, is one of his t-shirts. your coffee is spilled everywhere from when he startled you, the mug flipped on its side on the counter.

you try to gather your thoughts to respond. you end up coming back to the one thing that you haven't been able to forget about all week, the one thing that breaks your heart more than any of it.

"you didn't even fight for me," you say quietly. you do everything in your power to take deep breaths, blinking your eyes quickly to stop the tears in their wake. "you didn't even fight for me to stay. you just let me go."

you give him the benefit of the doubt when he doesn't respond immediately. you know he needs to gather his thoughts.

you wipe your eyes a few times, listening to the silence, just praying that you mean enough to him that he'll respond.

"I'll never make that mistake again."

you've missed him so much, even in your rage and despair, that those words are all the reassurance you need to hear from him. he steps closer to you, slowly, waiting for your permission to approach.

you take in his appearance once more. he clearly hasn't eaten or slept in days, and he looks dirty. you connect the dots in your head: he hasn't even gone home, hasn't left your side once all week.

the idea of him following you all week pissed you off only minutes before. but now?

your tears spill from your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck, embracing him as though he's your entire world.

he's never felt as relieved as he does when you cling to him. the aching in his chest finally begins to dissipate for the first time in a week.

you may be in some random apartment, but he's finally home.

he wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up. you get the hint and wrap your legs around his hips, holding onto him as he walks you over to the couch you've spent the last few days crying on.

he lays you down and begins to peel his shirt from your body, revealing every inch of your beautiful skin to him.

he knows has to show you how sorry he is, the only way he knows how.

he adjusts your positioning so you're sitting face forward on the couch, legs dangling over the edge, and he spreads your thighs as he gets to his knees in front of you.

it about takes your breath away.

this man, who is so possessive over you, so afraid of showing even a sliver of weakness or vulnerability, so against the idea of giving up any form of power, is on his knees for you in apology.

you know this isn't easy for him. this is the biggest display of trust you think you've ever seen from him, and your fears about not meaning anything to him begin to disappear.

you're the most important thing in his life. he wishes he had the words to tell you that.

he wraps his hands around the back of your knees, bringing you closer to him, and he pushes his tongue between your legs so softly.

his mouth is wet, and warm, and he hasn't eaten in days, but he'd rather you be the only thing he tastes for the rest of his life, anyways.

a few more involuntary tears spill from your eyes as he laves his tongue over you. you feel so sensitive, the combination of lacking his touch for so long and the emotion behind his actions is making you so much more conscious of his every movement.

he buries his tongue in you over and over again like it's his only mission in life.

he feels the entire lower half of his face, having gone unshaved for the last week, is soaked, covered in you. he hopes he leaves you with a mild rug burn between your thighs so you feel him for days afterwards.

you're so perceptive to his every move, you feel it distinctly when he begins to trace shapes over your clit.

A, E, S is all you make out.

James.

he's writing his name on your skin with his tongue.

you let out a whimper when you realize it, and your gentle hold on the back of his head tightens, pulling his face closer against your cunt.

"James," you whisper as he begins to work you faster, "please."

that's all it takes for him to push you over the edge. your thighs close on either side of his head, and he can mostly hear the way you whine his name as you come for him.

you barely have a second to relax your muscles before he's crowding you on the couch, repositioning you so you're laying underneath him.

his mouth begins to attack your neck, your rules against him putting hickeys on your neck be damned. and you gladly let him, you don't care right now.

he takes no time at all to shove the fabric of his pants out of the way, wrapping your legs around his hips once more, pushing himself down into you.

"fuck," you whisper at the stretch.

he continues his assault on your neck, marking you up and down all the way to your breasts, anywhere he can reach.

he bites back a groan every time you moan so perfectly, filling his ears, repeating his name every few thrusts.

but there's still something in the back of his head he needs you to know.

he doesn't stop, doesn't quit fucking you so beautifully as he brings his mouth to your ear.

"of course I like you," he admits so quietly, and his tone makes it sound like it's the most obvious thing in the world. you're brought back to the other night when you expressed your deepest vulnerabilities to him, and now, he's making up for what he should have told you then. "and of course I care about you."

you clutch him against you as tight as humanly possible until you're both letting yourselves go, feeling the comforting warmth as he releases inside you.

his body gives out, collapsing on top of you, exhausted from the physical and emotional toll of the week.

you finally feel tired too, more so than you have all week. it's as though your body is finally poised to truly rest now that he's with you again.

you can't sleep yet.

"take me home, James," you whisper, and he doesn't hesitate.

~~~

(guys as I'm writing this I'm about to cry)

yeah so I think I spent about six hours on this total y'all

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[cextile]

pick a pile reading ☆

how to read this pick a pile reading? ♡

the images above are your pick-a-pile options — see which image immediately pulls you in. If nothing stands out right away, take a moment to look at each pile/image. the one your attentions keeps coming back to is likely your pick. if more than one pile calls to you, trust that too. you can read both and take what resonates. and hey, if none of them feel like a match, no big deal. not every reading is meant for right now. come back another time — this reading isn’t going anywhere.

pile one ☆

cards pulled

six of pentacles reversed, eight of rods reversed, knight of pentacles reversed, ace of rods halfway, the star reversed

addressing different types in pile 1 take what resonates.

passive. that's the word for most of you guys.

the story I'm getting is that you guys have given up. It's not like you guys are completely hopeless, but you feel things are hopeless. whatever projects you're working on, whatever stuff you're working on, maybe you feel the need to just randomly give up on it?!

maybe you can't see it imagine seeing it through the end, but you have to see it through, ok!?!?!

orr maybe its that you do want to do the things that you have set out to be done, but it's just that you can't move. it's like you're frozen up or you think its just so 'meh' for you to finish your task.

your higher self wants to tell you that circumstances don't mean shit, right?

also they want to tell you to just brace yourself, slowly prepare yourself to look forward on what lies ahead of the road, and just start moving towards that goal. not running, just move, walk till your destination. idc how you do it. but move.

you'll get what you envision for yourself. but move.

on the other hand of this coin, if you're so goddamn desperate to get this done, for this to be finally over, to complete this project, and you're feeling desperate, to get it done anyhow!?! your high self wants to remind you of your boundaries.

you. do. not. lower. your. worth.

do not suck up to people, you will not lower your own self-worth in order to get what you want. what I'm not saying is that you will stop asking people for help. okay, I'm not saying that you guys need to stop asking people to give you an opportunity. what I am saying is that you guys do not need to literally lick someone's shoes and grovel at their feet to get something from them/or manupilate them, alr?

also, my group of people who feel sort of trapped, not in a suffocating life-threatening anxious way but in slightly breathless sort of restrictive sense about the thing in their life. i wanna tell you guys to take baby steps. small small actions you can do. take things one at a time, slowly and steadily, very, very slowly, and try and finish this thing that you're working towards, alright?

also ur higher self is all cold exterior huh. like my grandfather lol, slightly stern, wise and very very caring but just don't radiate all smiles and giggles.

plus the clouds just started rumbling, take it as a sign

pile two ☆

cards pulled three of swords reversed, four of rods reversed, two of swords, king of cups reversed, knight of pentacles

you guys can't just relax into this sense of security, esp with yourself can you? you know the vibe of the people who just stay in a bubble bath and drink wine, yeah? well, you guys are the exact opposite of that lmfao.

your highest self is gently nugding you to remove the needles in your heart. what that means all the kinds of pain that dont allow you to experience your emotions in an aunthetic way, and comes in the way of you living your life to the fullest. you’re not even fully feeling life right now, let alone living it. it’s time to let that go. bit by bit. stitch by stitch. the pain isn’t who you are, and it sure as hell doesn’t get to decide your future.

very specific message for some is that you’ll find your people. thats probably the reason some of your guys feel uneasy, your current group doesn't make you feel good.

also i think this reading is for the socially anxious people lol.

your higher self is very much at peace with herself and optimistic btw i like it. all gentle smiles.

you need to blindly trust yourself and gear yourself up mentally like a soldier heading for war.

actually, just scratch that & shift that perspective.

some of you have been in survival mode for so long that everything starts to feel like a fight to the finish.

what i meant was mental readiness — not this do-or-die tension, not panic, ok? just calm, grounded openness to whatever comes your way. be prepared for the unknown & also allow space for things to unfold without trying to control every outcome.

relaxing into that state of trust might not come easy, ik, but it’s worth working on trust me.

pile three ☆

cards pulled the three of swords, the four of swords reversed, the world reversed and the two of rods

okayy so I really wish you could see how beautifully the cards have turned up. they tell me the story so clearly rn, this is my fav pile <3

i have a condition for you pile 3, if you've been randomly/mindlessly scrolling on tumblr, i want you to stop for a second, take a deep breathe, and be present. i think this is a very deep message that might not strike immediately, so I want you to carefully read & think about it.

you know, there is this concept that has been taught to me as a child.

i wanna gently hold your hand and tell you,

sometimes, the world, संसार as I want to call it, pulls us so deeply into its maze of emotions, distractions & fleeting pleasures, that we start to hurt. It is a pain that permeates out heart & lingers with us emotional wounds for a long time. emotional heartbreaks, fighting with people, all these emotions that make us even less of a human, where is that going to take us when we turn to dust, and cease to exist on this earth?

you might not even realize that you are hurting, so absorbed in the facade of the external world, misguided from your true self. misguided from what makes your inner child happy.

take a moment to step back from the constant pull & push of this world, a chase that often leaves us feeling empty or unsettled. allow yourself to pause, breathe, and reconnect with what truly brings you peace. retreat, take your time to come back stronger, more grounded. also btw, you’re allowed to choose your virtues over chaos.

(chronically online people, this is ur sign to take ur social media detox pls)

so we had the world reversed, the four of swords reversed which shows a knight resting, retrieved from the world, & the three of swords which shows us the pain this world causes us right? now the next card is two of rods, and it shows a person showing a wand ready to use it to set out in the world. in the other hand, there is a pink glowing orb, the embodiment of inner vision. it speaks of self-guidance in the vastness of the outer world, led by the quiet certainty of one's inner light. it tells me navigate the outer world, yes—but let your soul be the compass.

also it's golden hour and the sun is shining so beautifully. this is immaculate because the sun’s presence showing that warmth, clarity, and renewal are always available to us.

come home to yourself.

that's it for this reading.

did my reading help?

with love,

Ananya ♡

[andy-wm]

Sargent Park Jimin, thank you.

This morning I found myself unexpectedly emotional over the military achievements of our beautiful Jiminie.

I cried. Ridiculous sobbing.

I've had a nasty cough-headache-fever lurgy for a few weeks. I'm worn out and my brain is foggy, so I'm blaming poor health for my unlikely response to the news its not really news that Jimin is an 'ACE'.

But is that really an excuse to disolve in a flood of tears over his ability to hit a target¹?

I dont know.

And besides that I'm trying to reconcile my OTT reaction with the fact that I hate war.

I do not celebrate military might.

I really really hate the idea of sending young people (mostly men) to kill each other, often for no good reason. I have a passionate stance on this.

And yet here I am, a blubbering mess because our Darling Angel™ can obliterate whatever comes near him... because he is epically good at operating his giant war machine.

While i was trying to work out why I'm feeling this way, it occured to me suddenly that i didn't really understand what net4ace meant. Spoiler, it's a bad translation, but that gave my brain something else to latch onto.... just the distraction I needed.

Boots on. Time to investigate.

We already know Jimin and JK are in the 5th Infantry Division, their Artillery Brigade coded 'White Bear', and garrisoned in Yeoncheon. While Jungkookie perfects his rice reputation, Jimin is assigned to the Fire Direction Centre, responsible for calculating and coordinating the firing of big artillery like the K9 Thunder... a self propelled Howitzer².

K9 Thunder: humongous gun on caterpillar tracks. Roll it out and blow stuff up. This machine is manufactured by korean-owned company, Hanwha Aerospace. It's the world's most advanced self propelled Howitzer, supplied to countries around the globe and customised for enviroments from Australia to Norway. Poland just signed a deal for 600 of these. Did you know that production of the K9 is 3 times faster than it's competitors? And it's cheaper. You're welcome.

What I found out about net4ace:

Commenting on Jin's Echo Weverse Live, Jungkook said 둘포 넷포 : dool(2)po net(4)po

Based on the explanations I found, 포 [po] is shorthand for the tank³ they're assigned to.

The numbers are easy to understand:

1- Hanapo, 2- Doolpo, 3- setpo, 4- netpo

Jungkook is with #2 Tank and Jimin is with #4 Tank

💜

After JK's comment, Jimin added 나는 넷포 에이스출신이지:

Net4ace is incorrect translation. It should be I'm 4-Tank ace.

He's cheekily correcting JK:

Adding the subject-marker particle to 'I' in that statement (나는) means he's basically saying 'as for me' ...

"...I'm not just riding in 4-Tank, I'm the ACE of 4-Tank"

It seems our Mochi is in charge of one of his battalion's K9 Thunder war machines. There are 6 in the battalion. Fortunately he doesn't have to be in the tank. Jimin and the others doing the clever mathsy-physicsy stuff are in a different vehicle. They radio in the coordinates to the people in the K9 Thunder, who key in the numbers and press the button. These Howitzers can get 6 shots out per minute. That's one round every 10 seconds.

So apparently he's an ACE

I'm not going to argue, but what exactly does ACE mean in this context?

It's not difficult to guess, but I like to check my assumptions.

See below:

ACE is exactly what you'd expect

He's the boss, super good at everything.

But i tell you what I didn't expect?

I didnt expect for Park Jimin to be in charge of a whole damn tank!! I didnt expect him to be the senior (non-commissioned) officer of his team and be in charge of running the whole tanky operation.

And what did I feel on finding all this out?

Absolutely proud and grateful!! What??!

At first I didn't understand my own reaction.

Shouldn't I be horrified?

I wanted to admonish myself for celebrating something so much at odds with my values.

I had to reflect, to understand my response to this, and to reconcile our Park Jimin with the perfect soldier, Park Jimin.

Because this is our Park Jimin....

Our Park Jimin whose dancing and singing bring joy to the world - who makes life more bearable just by being here.

Our Park Jimin who cares and understands. Who always has a kind word and never lets a birthday pass without celebration.

Our Park Jimin with the tender heart, who cried when he saw ARMYs on the big screens at Bangbangcon.

Our Park Jimin who dotes on ARMY and who put us in his pocket to take home when we didn't want him to leave us.

But also...

Our Park Jimin who has endured betrayal and abuse, sometimes by the people he trusted most. Yet he hasn't allowed it to harden his heart.

Our Park Jimin who has shown immense grace and strength in the face of personal struggles.

Our Park Jimin, who has sacrificed his health, freedom, and autonomy, to meet harsh expectations because that was the price of his dream.

I was contemplating all this and i suddenly understood the reason I'm proud and grateful:

Despite everything, Park Jimin has won.

He went into an environment completely at odds with his nature and his chosen field, and he excelled.

The military is as harsh and impersonal as it gets. The culture is designed to break you - to turn you into an obedient, faceless number. Despite this, Jimin didnt break. He made a name for himself, he made the experience work for him, and he made a positive impact on his fellow soldiers ...

I'm not proud and grateful because he can blow shit up.

I'm proud and grateful because he retained his identity and his sense of self even while transforming himself into the perfect soldier.

He hasn't faltered.

He has remained Park Jimin.

Consider what a challenge that is: being conscripted into the military of a country actively at war, while learning a new way to live and succeed and find meaning in what you're doing. Climbing the ranks and surviving gruelling physical and mental tests, and coming out on top. And not compromising who you are.

If he can thrive there, he can and will thrive anywhere.

And yes, I hate that he's operating a machine with a singular destructive purpose, but he will be thoroughly aware of what it means, and of the huge responsibility he has. After all, he's been in a postition of global power for over a decade.

While he may seem an unlikey choice to people who don't know him, if anyone is going to be in control of a war machine it should probably be someone like Park Jimin.

I realised while writing this, that while I can and do hate war, (nothing will change that) I can also feel proud of Park Jimin and what he's achieved while in the military⁴.

Go get it all, Jiminie, you incredibly smart and determined and kind and talented human! Win every heart and defeat every challenger. If you're knocked down, keep standing up again and don't ever lose sight of who you are:

Dancer, singer, idol, lover, and the 넷포 ACE of the 5th Division's White Bears Battalion.

And although you choose to be with us, you do not belong to ARMY, nor Hybe nor Jikookers nor PJMs... nor anyone else.

You belong to nobody but yourself.

💜🐥💜

¹ I know it's much more than just shooting straight. He's mastered all four disciplines required to be battle ready and to fulfil his role in the Fire Direction Centre. He's been through all the harsh training requirements and come out on top. He's made friends and been a mentor to young soldiers far away from home.

² Apparently a Howitzer is a type of gun with a short muzzle that fires a shell upwards in an arc, without much speed. The word comes from the late 17th century: from Dutch houwitser, from German Haubitze, from Czech houfnice meaning ‘catapult’. Love me some etymology.

³ It's not actually a tank. It's a self propelled Howitzer: a gun with wheels, an engine, and a small amount of armour, designed to move into firing position but not engage directly. Whereas a tank is an armoured vehicle with a gun attached, designed to drive into battle and crush the opponent like a bug.

⁴ Even if he had achieved nothing, I'd still be so proud of him and grateful for his existence. And look at me testing my black and white view of myself and finding a little patch of grey. Quite proud of my personal growth here hahahaha

[imaginingmanyfandoms]

worlds worst brother | jamie tartt x kent!reader

a/n; in my head i see this as a mini series, but this part just kind came to me. i'm picturing a part 2 & a 'how they started' ...... idk but i live for the angst, bye.

"I don't understand why you won't tell me about the bloke you're seeing," Roy mumbled, crossing his arms, "you always let me vet them."

Roy had stopped over late, without so much as a warning text, after dropping Pheobe off at your sister's house. He needed you to pick her up after school tomorrow, because he had a meeting with Ted and Beard and couldn't reschedule, and your sister was meant to be at work all day.

"C'mon, let me meet him! Is he here now? These ugly shoes must be his."

You were smiling nervously trying to get Roy to leave. Normally, an unannounced visit from Roy would end in a few hours of chatting and maybe a glass of wine, but today you were rushing your brother out the door - and he noticed.

"Let's set up a lunch next week," you said, "not just spring it on him now."

It shouldn't be a big deal. You were a grown woman, you could have boys' spend the night without Roy throwing a fit, he'd grown used to hearing about his younger sister's dates. But you'd been seeing this guy for a while and Roy hadn't heard a peep.

"All right fine," he relented, "but next fucking week and I'm holding you to that."

Except the guy you were seeing is Jamie Tartt.

And it was Jamie Tartt who was fast asleep in your bedroom after a long night spent mostly between the sheets.

And Jesus Christ, what a good night it had been. Jamie had really pulled out all the stops. From the beginning of the night he'd had it all planned out. He sent you out with Keeley in the afternoon with his credit card to buy a new dress, he'd brought flowers when he picked you up, drove you to the loveliest little restaurant on the edge of town while listening to a playlist of love songs he'd curated for the evening, and after dinner he told you that he loved you, and that he wanted to be your boyfriend properly, not just behind closed doors, and you'd agreed to come out with it.

And then he'd taken you home and spent the next few hours worshipping your body and doing everything in his power to make you scream his name.

No cheering fans could ever make him feel like you did when you sang his name over and over like a prayer.

And you had every intention of returning to that bed, and letting Jamie do it again.

You just needed to get Roy the hell out of your house.

Roy was laughing as you ushered him out, but suddenly... he was dead wait, rigid, glued to the spot. You tried to follow his line of sight, but he was in the way.

“Whose jacket is that?”

“What?”

“The fucking Greyhounds jacket!!!”

“Oh this???" you grabbed the windbreaker and tossed it into the closet. "Uh, no one’s, mine.”

“You’re a shit liar, and that was a team jacket."

“Well whatever, don’t ask a question if you don't wanna know the answer.” You were bluffing, you knew damn well he wouldn't let it go. Roy Kent was not one to just let things go that involved his sister.

“Oh, I want to know the fucking answer.”

"Next week!" you squeaked, "We'll go to lunch next week, promise!"

As if someone somewhere was working against you, Roy’s head snapped in the direction of the toilet flushing, followed by light footsteps.

Did Jamie hear what was going on? Maybe it's a miracle and he snuck into the guest room to play innocent. There was no way he didn't hear Roy's yelling.

Sneaking around with Jamie was one thing, but getting caught instead of telling Roy yourself was a whole other problem.

“Wait, dont-“

But he was already off down the hall, and you were hot on his trail. Jamie was in your room, caught like a deer in the headlights trying to pull on his pants. He didn't have time yet to grab his shirt, and his chest, splattered colourfully with a combination of teeth and scratches were staring Roy right in the face.

In your defense, the team was off and no one was meant to be seeing him without a shirt but you...

"Hey now," Jamie said, crooked, uneasy smile on his face, "it's not what it seems."

"It seems like you just fucked my sister!"

"It ain't fuckin', it's makin' love." Jamie crossed his arms, looking around for his shirt. Roy's eye twitched with this new information.

You threw a random night shirt of yours off the ground, and he slipped on (his favourite) Hello Kitty shirt of yours.

"I bought 'er that fuckin' shirt!" Roy shouts, lunging towards Jamie who yelps, and dodges out of reach, trying to hold his hands up in defense, but Roy just grabs him by the wrist, pulling him close so he can headbutt Jamie, knocking him over with the force of it.

"What the fuck Roy?"

"Jamie fucking Tartt? Jamie fucking Tartt? Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"Roy will you just-"

"No! No I won't fucking do anything! Out of everyone in this fucking city, you pick Jamie fucking Tartt? This must be a fucking nightmare. And what happens if he breaks your heart? Huh? What if he knocks you up and leaves you on your own? Am I going to have to be the one to pick up all the fucking pieces, again? God, this is gunna turn out so awful and you didn't even stop to think about me, or the fact that he plays for my team, you absolute fucking idiot, I'm fucking tired of sisters who pick stupid fucking boyfriends!"

And it was like all the oxygen was sucked out of the room. It was the meanest thing he'd ever said to you, the loudest he'd ever raised his voice against you, and he could see the way your lower lip wobbled, he could see the tears forming in your eyes, and before he could reach out for you, Jamie was already there, arm around you, rubbing your back slowly while he whispered something soothing in your ear.

"I think you should head out," Jamie said, voice even and without any hint of Jamie's usually idiocy. Void of humour or cockiness, and his eyes, his eyes never left your face. "Now, Roy. I think you should head out now."

And Roy didn't know what to say, he didn't mean it, oh of course he didn't mean it. You must know that. He couldn't ever be tired of helping his sisters, you guys were everything to him.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, leaving the room with his tail between his legs, closing the door behind him.

With the door closed, he could hear your crying start, and his heart shattered in his chest.

Wasn't Jamie Tartt that broke your heart.

Roy did that all on his own.

[effietrinket1619]

lanternfam tiktok chaos

So, by this point, everyone knows Hal has an ex that he's on frankly horrible terms with. but-

the video opens with Kyle and Hal in a legit screaming match, Jess is clearly filming from around the corner, and-

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU MARRIED HIM TWENTY-THREE TIMES?"

"WE WEREN'T LEGALLY MARRIED IN THOSE CORNERS, OKAY? IF I WANTED TO GET MARRIED ON MY HOME TURF, AND THEN HIS OLD STOMPING GROUNDS, AND THEN EVERYWHERE ELSE WE HAPPENED TO VISIT-"

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT YOU DATED HIS DAUGHTER, KYLE."

"TWENTY-THREE TIMES, HAL!"

"AND TWICE TO JOHN, BUT YOU DON'T SEE ME BRINGING THAT ONE UP EVERY OTHER TUESDAY!"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU AND JOHN GOT MARRIED?"

Jess ducks behind the corner again. there is never an explanation for this. ever.

i am HOWLING over this

The visuals focused while the audio bled in slowly, the cadence of a heated argument clear even if the words were anything but. Jess was giggling behind the camera as the debate reached new heights.

"--twenty-three times, Hal! What the hell were you two doing? Did the Guard--"

"Of course they knew, Kyle! This was before the law that forbade relationships, you idiot!"

Hal and Kyle, standing close together with their faces alight because of this entire debacle, were trading barbs with each other. Kyle in particular looked like he wanted nothing more than to throw Hal out of the window. "You got married to that asshole twenty-three times and you didn't think to tell us?"

Hal threw his hands up in the air. "You never asked!"

"Oh! Sorry then, I didn't realise I had to ask to know the sordid details of the great Hal Jordan's life! I'm asking now! What the hell is wrong with you?" Kyle bellowed.

Jess didn't think she'd quite seen Kyle this angry in her life. Then again, he was always full of surprises.

With a scowl, Hal grumbled, "You want the long answer or the short answer?"

"Long, obviously!"

"I..." Hal rubbed a frustrated hand over his face. "Okay. Listen, it was just diplomacy at first and then it kinda spiralled outta control so now we're here. Really, you're making a big deal of nothing. It's not like we're living together or anything."

"Yeah," Kyle hissed, "I'd sure hope so considering the guy tried to kill me!"

Waving a hand flippantly with a scowl, Hal said, "He's tried to kill all of us. You're being dramatic."

"I'm--" Kyle turned straight to Jess, eyes wild and radiating fury. "You're hearing this bullshit, right? Like, you're getting all of this too?"

Jess's thumbs up was visible for the camera, although the shaking made it extremely clear that she was just barely holding herself together for this. Hal groaned. "Can we please drop this? He's not exactly a great husband."

"Yeah. I can imagine, Hal." Kyle stopped short, looking a little unwell for a moment. "Oh God, I dated your stepdaughter."

Hal rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and that ended so well. Hypocrite."

"No!" Kyle jabbed a finger at Hal, pushing him back half a step with all of the audacity in the world. "No, you don't get to talk! I didn't marry her twenty-three times!"

"It wasn't a weird thing back then!" Hal said hotly. "We married each other all the time for diplomacy shit! I married John, like, twice!"

Kyle's voice cracked right down the middle. "John?"

"And Guy! We're all married to each other!"

"Oh my God. Oh my God." Kyle slumped into a chair. Jess was audibly losing it behind the camera, the screen shaking so violently the image was more or less ruined. "You...oh my God. You're in a fucking polycule."

"Sure. Whatever the hell that means."

Burying his face in his hands, Kyle gave a very distressed, very strangle sort of cry that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. "'Whatever that means,' he says. He's married to John and Guy and he doesn't give a shit. This entire time. This entire time, Hal?"

Hal, thoroughly over this, turned to Jess with incredulity written all over his face. "He's overreacting, right? Like, come on. I married a bunch of people back in the day."

Jess, almost entirely unable to choke out an answer through her genuine tears of laughter, responded with, "You--maybe you should've-should've told us?"

He crossed his arms, petulant. "Maybe you should learn how to ask first."

Kyle sobbed again.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Hiii! For your requests, I need to read a fic where we snap at tang. The reason he's mad in the first place is up to you, whatever it is, he's shouting, walking in circles in the room, and we just yell at him to stfu already and tell him this and this and that and how he should blah blah you get it. By the end he's silent and low-key hard because of how hot we look

I don't really mean angst with this request, just that tension yk? I loooove when big strong man get put in their place

Feel free to write this however you want, dialogue heavy or mostly descriptions, fic drabble or hcs, oh or maybe end it a little suggestive? It's all up to you love

love love love when men get put in their place😛 thanks for requesting 💌

READER PUTTING TAN IN HIS PLACE.

555 words. a little suggestive

⎯ ☆ ⎯

When he wants to be, Tangerine can be a man of many words: going off on tangents about something that’s rubbed him the wrong way or just complaining extensively about an encounter he had at the shop.

He often rambles on about his own irritations like a perpetulant child, leaving absolutely no space for you to get a word in edgewise.

And you love him, you really do. You could listen to him talk for hours, listen to his thoughts for days on end. But right now, you just couldn’t bear to hear it, especially when he’s so wrong.

Tangerine is briskly pacing the length of the rather grand living room, going off on a spiel about someone who drove into him earlier on. Moaning about how his insurance is going to increase for another person’s mistakes and that’s going to have to pay to get the dent buffed out. Many other things being mentioned that you’ve since tuned out.

But you were also in the car, you were there when the car drove into him. You knew that’s not what happened. But this is Tan you’re dealing with. It's not exactly easy to tell him that he’s in the wrong.

Yet, here he continues, rambling on as if he were innocent in the matter. Frustrations clearly growing. In yourself primarily.

“Okay,” you interrupt, though it goes unheard. So you repeat yourself, volume growing slightly. “Okay,” but nope, nothing. He’s unable to hear it over his own voice. “I get it!” you finally snap.

And that gets his attention. He stops in his tracks, head flinging around to face you — expression confused.

“Pardon?”

“I get it,” you repeat, forgetting to lower your voice through your own irritation. “I get the picture, okay? Jesus christ.”

He stands there with his hands on his hips, utterly shocked. But he doesn’t look mad for the raise in your voice. Instead he looks amused, entertained even.

“I was in the car with you,” you remind him, hands gesturing frustratedly. “That’s not what happened.”

“Alright then,” he walks closer, taking a seat on the coffee table in front of you. “Tell me what happened.”

His body language appears calm and it’s quite chilling. His effort of biting back is something quite uncommon with him.

“Uh,” you pause, quite unsure how to direct your anger now that he’s seemed to quieten down.

“You had a lot to say a minute ago,” his knees part in a man spread, getting himself comfortable. He smirks, features amused. “Go on then, keep going.”

You shake your head and you laugh softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

And when your eyes fall from his, you see between his legs just how much he seemed to enjoy your little snap. All evidence before your very eyes. 

“Oh god,” you scoff as you stand. You playfully push his head, swatting him away when he reaches to grab a hold of your hips. “You’re sick in the head, you know that? Sick, I tell you.”

“You’re blue balling me here, man,” he calls out to you, watching the back of you as you walk away — heading for the stairs. “It’s not on.”

“When you’re ready to admit you're wrong… I'll be waiting for you in our room.”

He stands with haste, rushing after you. “I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[ao3scrapesearch]

hi so, thanks to your tool i was able to figure out that every fic ive ever posted onto ao3 (from 2015 to recent, aside from three fics this last month i just posted) were all scraped, and its absolutely horrifying to me to know my works are being used in this way. this is hundreds of thousands of words of time, and is over 90% of all of the writing ive ever shared online, spread over multiple accounts and fandoms and im just feeling- so dejected. i know youre not an advice blog or anything, and i really appreciate the work youve done to help people find this information. im just curious- do you have any advice when it comes to dealing with this knowledge? i dont want to delete my fics and take them from people who enjoy them, and i want to continue to write and see others read my works. but its just so dejecting knowing what theyre being used for now. that i dont have any control over what is done with my own passion projects because some company can show up and just take it and use it in some environment-poisoning misinformation machine

I wasn't expecting to be ASKED for advice when I made the blog! But I give it my best shot for you guys when I can.

So to ME, it's a bit reassuring to see that the data isn't like. Amazingly collected, if that makes sense. If I were looking for a dataset to generate good writing, a huge thing I would want is a way to know what readers actually liked. For the record, having a low hit or kudos count or whatever does not mean your fic isn't good! (You can have a low hit count because your fandom isn't big or because you're not tagging your fic in a way to help the right people discover it, but the fic can still be amazing.) BUT if I were an outsider not looking to actually read the fics, just figure out what about the writing makes people like them, the top thing I'd be looking for is the stats like the hits, kudos, comments, and bookmarks. Nyuuzyou intentionally tried to exclude that data, which is... an interesting decision.

The choice of forum is telling, too. They chose to upload on Hugging Face, which is for AI hobbyists, not corporate models. These are people like you and me, just doing this as a hobby for fun, and it's pretty unlikely they'll ever create something they can sell from this. Yes, they're killing the environment with it, which I hate, but they're doing it on a much smaller scale than any of the commercial names in AI. Very similar to how you can post a fic and even get tens of thousands of hits and tons of positive interactions, but that doesn't mean you also publish traditional novels and make tens of thousands of dollars.

Again, for me, it also helps to remind myself that hey. They're already out there. Even if I take down all 60-ish of my fics that were hit in this scrape, that data is still out there, but if I delete them, it's ONLY out there as a stupid AI-training dataset, and I've cut out my readers entirely. Deleting the ones that were already scraped doesn't un-scrape them, and to me, it feels like letting the scrapers win if they get my writing AND I don't get to share my writing anymore.

For new writing going forward, that's definitely a place to make a personal decision! I've said a couple times I'm going to keep writing and sharing anyway because I love it, but that's not The One Right Way to do things.

I also am in the same boat as I've seen some people in my notes. A lot of my scraped fics were uh. Not my best work. Like I was prolific in 2018 and man... those fics were not super well-written. Text-based GenAI is trained to learn the order words should appear, based on probabilities. So if there's a lot of bad, boring works in there (and there definitely are! we all start out by posting mediocre writing!), that teaches the AI model to write bad, boring sentences. Most of us aren't tagging our fics in a way to tell a computer which fics are like this, so the AI doesn't know which fics are written by beginners who still don't know how to write well or who don't know English very well yet, and at least from what I know, the AI is going to treat those works like they're just as valid as the 100k+ novels we all know and love. All that comes together to make a shitty AI model that no one really wants to use, even if they're otherwise super pro-AI.

I'll round this off with a silly little book recommendation, but this book seriously changed the way I think about life in general and definitely impacted how I was able to take the scraping well enough and focus on being productive about it instead of just upset. The big takeaway from it is that no one can fully control their circumstances, but everyone has the ability to control the way they react to those circumstances. No one can control AI scrapers being scumbags, but we all get to choose how to respond to it happening.

[eldritch-spouse]

Thinkin about Berle with a mate who can make living cookies, like how he can make the icecream slimes

This is a big kicker for his obsession.

The moment he finds out about your existence, he's utterly fixated on finding ways to reach you, forcing his way to the surface and taking every shortcut possible to weasel into your place of work- Or residence, whatever is more readily available.

Berle has got it into his head that you must make a deal with him. And he knows what strings he can pull to make it look appealing.

You must visit Gluttony. You must see his Sorbet Sabbath. You must tell him what you think and show him the magic behind your craft.

Just think about the collaborative effort you and him could make. Berle's fame behind your establishment would help it grow exponentially, and your curious cookies could add a whole new flair to his own business. You have similar dreams to his, don't you? You see things the way he does, Berle knows- He can see that you're special!

The closer he gets to you, the more control he takes over your life's work, until you literally can't subsist without him.

[ducksido]

Can you do some twst characters with a Yuu that (non sexually) age regresses? like not to a baby type age, more of an older toddler to 1st grader age (whatever that is...) because that was normally the mental state i was in when i used to regress, for characters i would specifically like Kalim, ruggie, ortho, grim, and maybe a teacher!!! any other characters if you have ideas for them are welcome!! dont pressure urself to do more tho lolz :))

when i used to regress it was due to me being in bad moods or just feeling comfortable around a person enough to be able to let go for a bit, so for a scenario it could be just hanging out with the person if its more of a story type thing, if its more headcanons (which i dont mind!) you can come up with the scenario!! id love to see what you come up with :D

dont feel pressured to do this and its totally ok if u dont want to write this request!!! thanks for the fics and making my day more enjoyable <33 ☀️

(alright i'll attempt)

Kalim Al-Asim – “You can always be little with me!”

Kalim loves that you trust him enough to let your walls down. He’s sunshine on full blast when you start regressing around him—not because he’s clueless, but because he genuinely wants to give you a happy, safe space.

He’ll be like, “Oh! You feeling small today? That’s okay! Wanna color? I got so many markers!”

Breaks out his childhood coloring books from the palace. They’re fancy ones with gold-trimmed edges and sparkly stickers.

If you feel quiet and unsure, he’ll never push. He just scoots closer, hums a silly song, and lets you slowly inch into the moment.

His lap is always available. You’ll often end up snuggled under a light silk throw while he reads to you in an animated voice.

“This dragon sounds scary, but he’s actually just lonely! See? He’s like—‘rawr, give me a hug!!’”

He gets so into it, using puppets and plushies to act out stories. If you giggle, he looks like he just won a gold medal.

Comfort item: He’ll gift you a little plush elephant named “Tofu.” He says Tofu is brave and soft—just like you.

Ruggie Bucchi – “You can chill out here, yeah?”

At first, Ruggie’s a little surprised the first time you regress around him. But once he clocks that you’re not being silly—you’re being you, just a smaller you—he shifts immediately into Big Brother Mode™.

“Ah, so you’re feelin’ all small and soft today, huh? Aight. Come here, lemme tuck you under the blanket.”

He’s practical. If you’re regressing because you’re overstimmed or tired, he handles all the “adult” stuff without making a big deal out of it. “Don’t worry ‘bout cleanin’ up—go ahead and nap. I got it.”

He brings you rice crackers and juice in a cup with a silly straw. You get first dibs on the remote. Cartoons all day.

If anyone dares make fun of you? He shuts that down. “Hey. You laugh, you leave. Got it?”

He teases a little when you’re doing better—"Yuu, you drooled on the blanket again!"—but it’s always gentle and never mean.

Favorite moment: Watching your eyes light up when he teaches you how to fold a paper crane. He ends up making a whole flock with you.

Ortho Shroud – “I’ve read about this! Don’t worry—I’ll help!”

Ortho understands regression in a very literal sense, but that just means he’s very eager to learn how to support you. He stores everything you tell him in his memory banks for future reference.

“Okay! When Yuu is small, they like juice, warm socks, and picture books. Got it!”

He adjusts his voice modulation to sound softer and less robotic when you're regressed—he thinks it's less overwhelming.

Plays simple games with you, like stacking blocks or “spot the sparkly rock” treasure hunts around the garden.

He once programmed a mini-hologram show of your favorite story so you could see it like a stage play with sparkles and sound effects. “Tada! All done just for you!”

If you get sad or scared while regressed, he sits close and hums lullabies in perfect tune, projecting soft glowing lights like a starry ceiling.

Bonus: Idia sees you like this once and gets super flustered. “Wha—huh? You—you look like a tiny baby human—Ortho, help!!” Ortho just rolls his eyes and tucks a blanket over you.

Grim – “I guess I’ll let you nap on me... just this once.”

Grim acts like it’s a huge inconvenience when you regress, but the second you curl up and babble in that tiny, sleepy voice? His tail is thumping like crazy.

“Ugh, fine. Climb up here. You’re heavy—but I’m strong, so I guess it’s okay.”

He’s weirdly good at playing pretend. One time, you wanted to be a pirate and he brought you a pot lid as a shield and declared himself Captain Grimbeard.

Puts on a brave face for you. If you’re scared or anxious in your regressed state, he puffs up and hisses at your fears. “No nightmares on my watch!”

You sometimes cling to his fur when you’re deep in regression, and while he grumbles, he secretly preens about it. “Y’know... you’re lucky I like you, hench-human.”

Grim's love language: letting you rest on his stomach while he complains loudly about it, but won’t move for hours.

Professor Trein – “Childhood is not something to be ashamed of.”

Trein is gentle and deeply respectful when he realizes what your regression is. He doesn’t see it as immature—he sees it as vulnerable and human, something that deserves protection and compassion.

He’ll guide you through the library and pull down classic children’s books to read aloud. His voice is low and soothing like warm tea.

“Would you like to try reading this one aloud yourself? I’ll help with the big words.”

Lucius always seems to know when you're regressed and will curl up in your lap like you're the most precious thing in the world.

Professor Trein will brew calming tea (or warm milk if you prefer) and let you sit near the hearth with a thick blanket and your favorite book.

He has a drawer of old toys from his daughters—wooden puzzles, a soft cloth doll, worn but lovingly kept—and offers them to you without judgment.

Most comforting moment: “It is not foolish to need care,” he tells you one day, as you sit quietly by his desk. “In fact, recognizing it is a sign of wisdom.”

Bonus: Leona – “Tch. Alright, get over here.”

Will act annoyed but will let you nap curled against his side the entire afternoon. Plays with your hair lazily while you drift off.

“No one bothers ‘em. Got it?” is all he has to say to the rest of the dorm. And no one does.

His tail occasionally sways over your lap as a comfort rhythm. You fall asleep watching it move back and forth.

[belit0]

Hi love, I'm loving your posts about the Uchihas in high school, LIKE SO MUCH 🙏🏻🥺❤️if you're interested, you can make Indra, Madara and Izuna having a classmate as a fuck partner? in the living room, they don't even exchange glances, but in the bedroom it's another story lmao 🙂‍↕️

This… ended up being quite dark. I mean, the usual with this AU, but it has a... r4p3 scene, that's pretty explicit, so proceed with caution.

All characters depicted in this story are 18 years of age.

TW: n0n.c0n, drug$, r4p3, manipulation, yandere behaviour, psychological manipulation, violence. "She's desorientated, traumatized, and vulnerable. Just how Uchiha's like it."

PROCEED WITH CAUTION, YOU'VE BEEN WARNED

Behind the gym, it smells like burnt rubber and weed. Heat clings to the concrete even in the shade, the air thick with that late afternoon buzz that always makes everything feel more surreal.

Izuna flicks his lighter shut with a snap, squinting through the smoke curling from the joint hanging off his bottom lip.

–I’m fucking bored.

Madara doesn’t answer. He’s leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded like he’s waiting for someone to piss him off just enough to bother breathing.

Indra sits on the edge of the loading dock, hoodie sleeves shoved up, legs spread wide, a cigarette loose between two fingers.

Izuna exhales, then grins. –We should get a fucktoy.–

Indra looks up first. No expression, just a blank stare that lingers a beat too long.

Madara snorts. –What the fuck are you on about.–

–Dead serious.– Izuna pops the joint back in, cheeks hollowing as he hits it deep. –Think about it. One girl. We take turns, we fuck her up proper.–

Madara doesn’t respond right away. His mouth pulls to the side, not quite a smirk. –That’s not normal.–

–And?– Izuna looks at him, eyes glassy but focused. –We aren’t exactly winning awards for mental health. You’re the one who broke that guy’s nose last week because he touched your shoulder.–

Madara’s jaw flexes.

Indra flicks ash off the end of his cigarette, staring at the ground.

–The fuck makes you think a girl'd agree to that?– Madara mutters.

–Doesn’t have to.– Izuna shrugs. –Just has to show up.–

–That’s fucked.– Indra says it flatly.

No judgment. Just a statement.

Izuna grins. –You’re thinking about it though.–

Madara pushes off the wall finally. –Sharing’s a pain in the ass.–

–You making a big deal about it. Just us, using her. You get your control shit. Indra gets his twisted pain. I get her when she’s all fucked up and crying.

Madara stares at him.

Izuna doesn't blink. –Don’t lie like that’s not exactly what you want.–

Indra’s voice comes low. –If we’re doing it, we pick well. Don't want no drama.-

Izuna barks a laugh, tossing his head back. –Jesus. You’re sicker than me.–

–Takes one to know one.

Madara finally sighs, dragging a hand down his face. –Whatever. Let’s say we do it. Who?–

–It can’t be anyone mouthy. Or anyone who talks to too many people. Has to be quiet. Desperate. Someone who doesn’t even realize how fucked this is.

–And she can’t bitch when we push her around,– Madara adds. –Like Indra said, no drama.–

–She’s gotta like it when we fuck with her head.– Izuna leans in now, eyes lighting up. –Like… wait for the hallway stares. Sleep with her phone on her chest in case one of us calls. That type of girl.–

–Someone who’ll break easy,– Indra murmurs.

They all go quiet again.

And then Izuna tilts his head, a slow grin spreading like blood in water.

–I think I know who.

//

The hallway behind the old gym isn’t supposed to echo.

But her steps do. Loud. Uneven.

She turns around the corner, hurrying, late for class, until her concern shifts.

(Y/N) stops.

Izuna stands in front of her, blocking her way forward, teeth-baring smirk cutting through the stillness like a knife.

Madara leans against the wall at her right. Arms crossed, black eyes unreadable.

Waiting.

And Indra?

He’s coming from behind her. Silent.

She didn't realize he was there when she picked that route.

Panic blooms fast. Like a match lit too close to dry skin.

–...What do you want?– Her voice is barely there.

Izuna doesn’t blink. –You.–

Madara speaks next, slow and cold. –So don’t fuck it up by running your mouth.–

She takes a step back—and hits something solid.

Indra.

His presence is a wall, unmoving.

She doesn’t dare look over her shoulder.

–You know what we are, yeah?– Izuna tilts his head. –You’ve heard the shit they say. You’ve seen how they look at us. Like we’re poison. Dangerous. That sound about right?–

She doesn’t answer.

–Good,– Madara says. –Because it means you’re smart. Smart enough to shut up and listen.–

Izuna steps forward. Too close.

Her back presses harder against Indra, breath caught in her throat.

–We want one girl. A plaything. A hole. Someone who knows how to stay quiet and take it. You.

Madara’s eyes don’t move from her face. –Not because you're special. Don’t get it twisted. You just fit. You’re quiet. You don’t talk to anyone. No one will fucking miss you.–

–You’ll do what we say, when we say it,– Izuna adds, voice tightening. –No bitching. No pouting. You’ll open your legs when told, and you’ll thank us for the attention.–

Her heart pounds. Too fast. Her lungs can’t pull enough air.

Indra finally leans in—his mouth by her ear, his breath ice against her skin.

–Run if you want. I’ll drag you back.

She trembles.

Madara watches her shake with an expression that borders on cruel amusement.

Izuna leans close from the front, boxing her in. –Say it, now. That you're in.–

–I... I-I–

–Louder, slut, no stuttering.

And in the heat of that silence, trapped between danger and obsession, something in her cracks.

–...Y-Yes...?

Madara smirks. Indra exhales—satisfied. Izuna laughs once, dark and sharp.

–Knew it. She’s gonna break real nice.

//

GROUP CHAT: locked_room (created by Izuna Uchiha) Members: Izuna, Madara, Indra, (Y/N)

Izuna this where we talk about her nothing else

Madara she in the chat?

Izuna yeah can read not like she’s gonna say shit

Indra good should see what’s coming

Madara don’t think she gets it yet

Izuna she’ll stop pretending after saturday

Indra where?

Madara here. dad’s out of the city house empty

Izuna 10PM she shows or she gets picked up

Madara don’t care how she ends up my room

Indra quiet girls don’t fight they fold

Izuna i go first girl been staring at my mouth since day one

Madara don’t care what hole i get as long as she breaks

Indra she gonna wants it too bad to run

Izuna @(Y/N) reply you already said yes no turning back

[PRIVATE DM – Izuna → (Y/N)]

Izuna check the fucking chat top to bottom

Izuna we made the call my place saturday night you showing up dont waste our time

//

The door swings open before she knocks again.

It's 10:30PM.

Izuna’s face is unreadable—no smirk this time. Just a flick of the chin.

–Get in.

No greeting. No smile.

Just fingers gripping her wrist tight enough to leave marks as he pulls her inside, already walking.

Halfway up the stairs, he cuts a look over his shoulder.

–You wore that? Jesus.– A click of his tongue. His eyes drag down her legs with zero subtlety. –Try harder. You’re not the only one we could’ve called tonight.–

He doesn’t wait for her to answer. Doesn’t care. Just pushes open Madara's bedroom door. Inside: the other two Uchihas, sharing a cigarette and talking nonsense.

They don’t look up when she walks in.

They saw her already. That was enough.

–Took long enough.– Madara’s voice is flat. –Thought she chickened out.–

Izuna shuts the door behind her with a loud click.

Her throat tightens.

The sound locks her in.

–You stand there ‘cause you’re scared, or you want attention?– Indra finally raises his eyes. Not soft. Not amused. Just cold.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes.

–That dumb look again.– Izuna's voice is sharp, biting. He walks past her toward the bed. –Don’t tell me you thought we were gonna be nice tonight.–

Indra comes closer, with that dangerous pace of his. Hands in his pockets. Not looking at her, but through her. –You’re not special just because we picked you. You’re here because we agreed to let you be.– He pauses. –You fuck that up, shit won't be good for you.–

Her hands tremble at her sides, but she says nothing.

–Say something, toy.– Madara doesn’t blink. –Or you just here to look stupid?–

Her voice barely makes it out. –I… I didn’t mean to be late.–

That earns her nothing.

No nod. No look. Just Madara standing, moving toward her as well, slow like a storm cloud, staring down without warmth.

–You think that’s what this is about? Time?– He scoffs. –You could crawl in here bleeding and we wouldn’t give a fuck.-

Izuna drops onto the bed, pulling a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it like she’s not even in the room. He exhales smoke through a grin. –Give her ten minutes.–

Indra stays quiet. But his eyes are on her.

Calculating.

Unimpressed.

She shifts, knees brushing. That’s when Madara tilts her chin up — not gently. Thumb under her jaw like he’s examining something half-broken.

–You came here. That means you’re ours for the night. Don’t care what’s in your head. Don’t care how you feel.

He lets her go, roughly. Then, like nothing, joins Izuna at the bed, sitting against the headboard and stealing his cigarette.

–You don’t speak unless told. You don’t leave unless we say so.- Indra’s voice cuts in, emotionless: –And if you ever think about backing out, remember this: we're not people to be fucked with.– Then he moves, one hand closes around her upper arm—not rough, but firm.

Unnegotiable.

He says nothing.

Just pulls her forward.

Walks her across the room like dragging furniture.

Madara doesn’t even blink as Indra brings her to the bed.

–You’re in the way.– That’s all Indra mutters before pushing her down —straight into Madara’s lap.

She stumbles, knees landing on either side of him. He doesn’t move to help. Doesn’t even look at her. Just exhales a breath, like she’s nothing more than added weight.

His hands rest on her thighs, eventually.

Heavy. Not affectionate.

–Keep still.

That’s it.

Izuna laughs, sparking the lighter with one thumb.

–Remember that one girl at Shisui's party? The clingy one with the fake lashes?

Madara finally speaks, not to her.

–The one that cried when you got her name wrong?

–Yeah, that dumb bitch.- Izuna shakes his head, –Tried to fuck her while she was mid-breakdown. Couldn't stop laughing.–

Indra walks past the bed, picks up a bottle, drinks from it, then tosses it down again with a clink.

–The short one who called you her soulmate after two days was worse.– Madara affirms.

Izuna grins. –She’s the one that brought cupcakes. Broke down when she saw her friend with me the next week.–

Madara snorts. –Cupcakes.–

(Y/N) doesn’t speak.

She’s still on Madara’s lap. His hand drifts up her waist absently, dragging her lower on him so her weight fully sinks into his. He doesn’t look at her once.

Izuna stands, fetching a joint from the desk and getting it in his mouth. He then walks over, passing it lazily to Madara, who takes it with one hand, the other still on her hip.

–We gonna keep talking or we doing something?– Izuna asks, fingers ghosting over the back of her neck.

–She’s too quiet.– Indra again. Leaning against the wall now, arms crossed. –Might think we give a shit what she’s feeling.–

Madara taps ash onto the floor.

–She knows what this is.

(Y/N) stays still. Heat floods up her chest, her throat.

Madara shifts under her, finally. The first movement with intention. He takes another drag, fingers tightening on her hip.

They’re not done talking. Not done ignoring her.

But she’s in position.

Exactly where they want her.

Then Indra moves, lowers himself to Madara’s side on the bed, phone in hand, swiping through photos of metal parts and custom dashboards.

–I swapped the console, carbon finish. Ordered the new clutch too.

Madara flicks ash into the tray without looking up.

–Hydraulic or no?

–Hydraulic. Not fucking around with anything less.– Indra’s voice is low, unconcerned. His knee bumps against hers. He doesn’t acknowledge it.

Madara gives a slow nod. –About time.–

(Y/N) sits still. Silent. Knees on either side of Madara’s thighs. Her weight barely shifts the bed.

She could disappear and neither of them would notice.

Behind her, Izuna moves.

No warning—just fingers curling into her hair. Not gentle. He pulls her head back without a word, exposing her neck. She gasps, spine arching as his mouth grazes the side of her throat.

His breath is hot. His other hand slides under her shirt, palm cold against her skin.

She makes a sound—quiet, involuntary. A moan caught somewhere between her teeth.

Indra doesn't lift his gaze. –Did she say something?–

Madara doesn't even blink. –Told her to keep quiet.–

(Y/N) stiffens.

Izuna doesn't stop. His hand drags lower, lips still at her neck, breath heavy like he’s not even hearing them. Or maybe he is—and doesn’t care. His grip in her hair tightens, forcing her to hold position, spine taut like a puppet’s.

Indra flips to the next photo. –Installed the LEDs under the seats too. Custom switch under the dash.–

–Clean work. You wire it yourself?

–Obviously.

Izuna hums low behind her.

Maybe in approval. Maybe in distraction.

(Y/N) doesn’t dare move.

Her breath stutters. The weight of Madara beneath her, Indra beside her, Izuna behind—none of them focused on her. Not fully. Not the way normal people would be. But she can feel the ownership in every hand that touches her.

Every word spoken around her.

Presence without care.

–If she makes another sound, take her out of the room.- Indra speaks.

Izuna lets go of her hair slowly, drags his palm down her spine, deliberate and slow. –She not gonna say shit. Dumb as hell, but even worse? Dick-starved.-

She’s barely balanced in Madara’s lap when Izuna’s fingers wrap around her wrist and yank.

No warning. No softness.

Just take.

–Get off.– he mutters, barely louder than a breath, but it’s an order.

Madara doesn’t even glance down when her weight lifts. He exhales through his nose, more interested in the car mods Indra’s showing than the girl being dragged off his lap like she’s an accessory that overstayed her use.

Izuna pulls her across the room like she’s weightless.

He drops into the desk chair, leather creaking, and pulls her down with him—hard. One motion. Her knees hit the outside of his thighs. Her breath catches.

Straddling him now.

No space left between them.

His hands are already moving—one sliding under her thigh, the other gripping the back of her neck, fingers pressing into her skin like he wants to fuse her spine to his palm.

He kisses her like he’s punishing her for not doing it first. Rough. Possessive. All teeth and breath, like he’s not chasing pleasure—just control.

She makes a noise. Too soft. Too revealing.

Indra doesn't look up. –You're still using that busted intake?-

Madara scoffs. –Not after last week. Swapped it for the high-flow.–

Izuna’s hand slides higher on her leg. His knee bounces once, jolting her in place, but he doesn’t stop kissing her. Doesn’t speak to her. Doesn’t ask for permission.

Her mouth breaks from his, breathing sharply.

He follows immediately, dragging his mouth along her jaw, down to the base of her throat.

(Y/N) squirms. One of her hands lifts—maybe to push—but Izuna catches it midair and shoves it down against his chest. No room for choices here.

Madara flicks ash from a new cigarette. –Tell me you didn’t cheap out on the suspension.–

Indra snorts. –What do I look like, a charity case? I don’t half-ass anything.–

She’s still trying to breathe right.

Still trying to decide if she’s allowed to move, to speak, to look at them.

But they never told her she could.

Izuna kisses her again, harsher now. Less about her and more about him.

Like she’s just a way to quiet something in his chest.

And the other two don’t even pause their conversation.

Because she’s not important in that room.

Izuna tears her shirt off like it insulted him, the fabric hitting the floor and disappearing from his mind the second it leaves her skin. His fingers find the clasp of her bra, but he doesn’t rush.

He leans in instead, his voice a low rasp against her ear, cruel and amused. –Wearing this shit like you didn’t know what was gonna happen. Fuckin’ clueless. Lemme guess—you’re still a virgin?-

He lets both pieces fall, eyes locked on her, and when she stays silent, when she doesn't even try to lie, something in him lights up.

That stillness… that shame. It answers louder than words.

His laugh slices through the air—sharp, guttural, brutal. One hand wraps around her breast, pinching until she jolts. Over her shoulder, he throws a glance back at the others, grin wicked, unrestrained. –No fucking way! You hear that? She’s still whole. A fucking virgin.–

He keeps laughing, unbothered, cruel. 

And when Indra rises, silent and slow, reaching for her like claiming prey, Izuna doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop him. Just watches as his cousin drags her from his lap, pale and trembling, and tosses her onto the bed like something meant to be used.

She lands hard—bare skin against linen, legs open, breath catching.

Madara rises with the kind of stillness that makes silence feel like violence. –Stupid as hell, aren’t you? Walked right into this without a clue.-

He moves, kneeling where her head rests, his presence suffocating. Then his hand meets her cheek—sharp, deliberate. Not anger. Not discipline. Just because he enjoys the sting it leaves.

Below, Indra peels away what’s left. Her underwear doesn’t slide—it’s torn, split in his fists, not because it’s in the way, but because destruction lives in his blood, and softness never satisfied him.

Izuna tosses something onto the bed with a flick of his wrist, the foil packet landing near her hip like an afterthought. He moves closer, slow and sure, and sinks down onto the edge of the mattress without saying a word.

His gaze flicks toward Madara, who’s already getting ride of his clothes with that same clinical precision he applies to everything—swift, sharp, indifferent.

Indra doesn’t even glance her way. He tears the foil open with his teeth, all focus and force, like prep or foreplay doesn’t exist in his vocabulary. Efficiency over empathy. Control over everything else.

Madara doesn’t pause. His voice is flat, commanding—no heat, just pressure, squeezing her cheeks with one hand to signal what he wants. –Open. And don’t even think about using teeth.–

She obeys. Of course she does. There’s no room for protest here, not when their silence is heavier than any threat. Madara positions inside her mouth without care, both hands braced on either side of her ribs as he sets the rhythm, using her body like it’s just a function in the moment.

None of them look at her like a person right now. 

-Pathetic,- Izuna leans back on his palms, smirking. He watches like it’s a show, fingers tightening into the sheets as he waits for his turn, his other hand stroking himself. -Dumb, messy little cumdump. Fuckin’ knew it soon as I saw you.-

Indra finally thrusts into her—one hard, unforgiving motion that wrenches a cry from deep inside her, penetrating with no mercy. Her body jerks beneath Madara’s weight, spine arching in a futile attempt to escape the sudden stretch, the pain, the intrusion.

Above her, Madara growls when her mouth tightens reflexively around him, teeth brushing where they shouldn't.

His palm comes down across her breast, sharp, stinging. 

Indra throws his head back, hips snapping forward again and again, brutal, ruthless, lost in the rhythm he sets for himself. He doesn’t slow. He moves in the way he needs.

Madara’s hips press forward with cruel weight, forcing her to take him deeper.

Izuna watches, eyes fixed, and even with his brother’s ball hitting her eyes and nose, he can see the sheen of tears on her cheeks as she struggles for air.

Her nails dig into Madara’s thighs, desperate, wild—but it only earns her another slap to her breasts, harder this time. -Stay fucking still whore.-

Then he shifts, planting more of his weight on either side of her head, sinking in with full intent until she’s choking on the length of him, throat stretched tight, the shape of his cock visible under that soft skin.

The room fills with slick sounds—wet, messy, brutal gagging.

Only when he decides she’s had enough does he pull back, letting her breathe in broken gasps, eyes glassy, lips red and wet, spit all over her face.

But the reprieve is short. A few seconds, maybe. 

Indra moves like her body is a toy—like it's not even hers to resist anymore. -Useless bitch. Just a hole now, can’t even fight back, can’t even scream right.- One hand bruises her thigh as he spreads her wide, pushing down on her lower belly with the flat of his other palm, forcing her to feel every inch of him inside. Not just the stretch, but the burn, the pressure, the pain and intrusion, the raw throb of something too big and too brutal for her to take quietly, for a first time to be like this. -Bet you’ll start liking it.-

He keeps her open, locked in place beneath him, hands pinning her like prey that tried to run too late. But she still squirms, fights, resists, trembling with the kind of panic that tastes like regret.

Izuna joins without a word. His hands slide over her legs, holding her down beside his cousin—not to comfort, never that, but to steady her, to still her, so Indra can keep taking whatever he wants at the pace he needs.

The air smells like sweat and sex, and the bed creaks under the weight of what she’s being pulled through. Indra’s hand slaps her skin—thighs, hips, anywhere he can reach. With fury, dominance, correction, reminder that she doesn’t get to fight anymore.

When he finishes, he pulls out with a final grunt, knot of tension snapping loose from his spine. He ties off the condom, dripping with a mixture of blood and fluids, and tosses it aside, stripping the last of his clothes as if the heat still burns under his skin. 

The flick of a lighter joins the other sounds while he sits on the edge of the bed, and smoke curls around his face as he leans back, satisfied for now.

Izuna moves in next—not in a rush, but with the slow, deliberate hunger of a wolf circling a weakened doe.

He undresses fully while taking Indra’s previous position, cock already thick and flushed. He presses the head against her slick, swollen folds, not to enter, not yet—but to rub against the mess left behind. -Already fucked stupid, and I haven’t even touched her yet. Bet she’ll still clamp down like a goddamn vice.- Her pussy is red, abused, sensitive after that punishing pace, but he watches the friction, watches her flinch and twitch, watches the way her body reacts to the pain.

Madara finishes too, deep in her throat.

She gags around him, spit and heat and cum dripping from the corners of her lips when he finally pulls away. Some of it lands on her cheek, sliding down her flushed skin as her body collapses onto the bed in a mess of limbs and shaking breath, no hands holding her down or restricting her movements.

She coughs, blinking like she’s trying to remember where she is, what world she just fell into. Her lungs drag in air like it’s her first breath in minutes.

She’s desorientated, traumatized, vulnerable.

Just how the Uchihas like it.

–Where’s the weed?– Madara’s voice is lazy, thick with release, as he stretches against the headboard. 

Indra tosses him a joint with two fingers.

But Izuna’s waited long enough.

He grabs her by the hips and flips her easily, forcing her onto her knees. One palm presses between her shoulder blades, driving her chest to the mattress. –Should’ve thought it through, slut.– His voice is low, dangerous, sick. –Might’ve been gentler if you'd told us “no”.–

He uses the swollen head of his cock, slick with the fluid dripping from her pussy, to glide down her trembling seam—sliding from her freshly stretched opening to that second ring of tense muscle above, untouched, tight, and offering no invitation.

Izuna doesn’t ask. He never has to. He knows what he wants. And he never goes after what someone else has already claimed. –Cover her mouth, cousin. Don’t want neighbors banging on the door or calling Dad.– He says it to Indra, taking a drag from the joint Madara just handed him.

Indra gets the joint next, while working the screaming.

With her mouth muffled beneath the weight of a pillow, breath smothered into the fabric, Izuna takes a path she never imagined was even on offer tonight.

-Hope you’re ready, whore. I’m not the nice one.

Pain sears through her—raw, immediate.

Her body lurches forward on instinct, trying to flee the intrusion. But Madara shifts behind her, gripping her hips and angling her just right for Izuna to push in deeper.

The screams that tear through her are guttural, near animal, but buried in the bedding they go unheard—except by the three guys who crave them. 

Uchiha blood only burns hotter when it hears suffering wrapped in surrender.

Indra gives Madara the joint, all three way too high.

Izuna sinks to the hilt, lost in the impossibly tight hole he’s taken without permission, fully aware he won’t last more than a few thrusts before this little bitch pulls the orgasm out of him. –Gonna sound like a fucking virgin but swear to God… you don’t get how stupidly tight she is.–

The joint finally dies, so Madara drops it into the ashtray and shifts. 

Indra removes the pillow from her face, noticing the screams have fallen silent.

The fabric has done its work—left her pliant, dazed, open. 

Madara slides beneath her with purpose, his movement fluid and silent, and Izuna catches on fast. Together, they lower her hips, positioning her just right. With a slow, deliberate thrust, Madara fills her cunt, the slick drag of dual penetration creating a dark symphony of wet sounds and flesh meeting flesh.

(Y/N) seems to regain consciousness just enough to try and scream, but Indra positions himself inside her mouth, lodging deep and making her choke again. The three move like a trained trio, each taking what they want, how they want it, the girl between them nothing more than a simple object to use and discard.

And eventually, she blacks out for good—maybe from the pain, maybe from the shame, or from the sheer submission her body has been forced to endure.

When each Uchiha finishes one last time, her body is left behind, limp and used, sprawled across the bed like an afterthought.

The three of them clean up and get dressed amid the haze of weed and laughing, already talking about doing it again.

They cover the girl’s limp, unconscious body without ceremony and carry her out to Madara’s car.

The drive is quiet. No one speaks.

At her doorstep, one of them drops her on the porch without a second thought—no concern for the aftermath, no care for what might follow.

After all, this is what happens when you get involved with the Uchiha family

[luna-rainbow]

I just saw this post and I gotta say, Minnie you're always such a blessing for the fandom. I remember coming into Stucky after...uh, a rough time with TFATWS, and it was just so warm and welcoming, and half of it was because older Stucky fans like yourself and others emphasised treating Stucky as a package deal. And as people say, there is a tendency to focus more on Bucky's trauma recovery because it's so big and obvious and complicated, but there were so many good metas that balanced the two of them and reminded us that Steve himself carries a huge burden of trauma and responsibility.

So yeah, the fans mentioned by anon definitely exist, but it is also a bit of "be the change you want to see". I saw a lot of older fans like yourself lead by example by valuing both characters in their emotional weight and significance, and that's created the Stucky fandom we have today where most people appreciate both characters even if they might prefer one or another slightly more for whatever reason.

I don't know why, but I keep seeing fans who say they're stucky fans but they seem to like one guy and hate the other. Like some Bucky fans complain about how Steve abandoned Bucky and wasn't nice to him, and some Steve fans complain every time you talk about Bucky and his trauma, going 'What about Steve!?' It feels like you have to pick one or the other. It feels almost weird that I love about care about both of them. Why is that so difficult? Why can't you just enjoy the characters and how much they love each other?

Oh no, I'm so sorry to hear you'be been struggling with this! That sounds very tiring and a bit upsetting. First of all, I have to admit that I don't really share your experience, which might have something to do with the people I follow and the fandom bubble I'm in, in which most people share my own mindset and preferences. I almost exclusively know and follow people on here who, like me, love both Steve AND Bucky equally, and who either ship Stucky or at least care a lot about their relationship. So in my experience, everyone is just enjoying the characters and how much they love each other! I'm not saying this to be like "what are you talking about", by the way, but more to show you that it is possible to enjoy both characters and how much they love each other, without people coming at you from all sides <3

Having said that though, I am of course aware of the widespread Steve criticism (if not to say hate) that got a lottt of traction after Endgame (which, fuck Endgame), but I am personally of the opinion that if someone really thinks Steve would abandon Bucky like he did in Endgame, and you blame the character for that decision rather than the writers etc, then you don't know Steve at all, ergo your opinion on him is void, as far as I'm concerned. If I see people saying nonsense like that on here, I will either roll my eyes or just block them outright, to protect my peace. And that works really well, generally speaking.

As for Steve fans going "What about Steve!?" when you want to talk about Bucky - Although I'm sure there are some Steve fans who prefer Steve over Bucky or even don't really care about Bucky (which is wiiiiiiild to me, because how can you say you care about a character but not care about what that character cares about most at all??), generally speaking, I don't know that I see people asking "But what about Steve" as an inherent dismissal of Bucky, or people expecting others to choose sides? It may well be the case sometimes, but I doubt that's always what it means, you know? Perhaps that helps?

I think that in the fandom spaces we're in, Bucky is a lot more popular and loved as a character (especially these days, post EG) than Steve is, which makes sense considering Bucky's kind of the perfect blorbo, and there is still new Bucky content coming out, and, of course, he is just really fucking amazing and loveable. But yeah, there is no shortage of Bucky love or discussion in this fandom, which I am personally delighted about and will always do my best to contribute to as well because he is my forever blorbo too. But I guess I can see why people would sometimes feel like Steve is not quite getting the love he deserves, you know? Still though, if someone goes "But what about Steve!?" on a post that is about Bucky, that is just very annoying and unnecessary, I totally agree. If people feel that way, they should make their own post about it, not hinder others in their Bucky loving!

I do get hate sometimes from people who say I don't appreciate the characters enough on their own because I always discuss them as a package deal, but frankly, I don't really give a damn about that. I am a Stucky shipper first and foremost, and for me, these characters ARE just inextricably connected. A Steve without Bucky by his side, or a Bucky without Steve by his side, just doesn't feel right to me, which is one of the reasons why I choose not to watch any post-Endgame content. And if others have an issue with that, well, then that's their issue, not mine.

So perhaps you could try and apply that kind of mindset to your situation as well, anon? Focus on loving our boys, equally, and together, and don't let anyone get in your way! The block button and tag filters are your best friends, and following the right people - people who are kind and reasonable and who share your mindset - is essential. I don't know if this helps at all, and do let me know if you want to talk about this some more, but I hope this is useful in some way! Sending love and hugs, and ALLLLL of the love for both our beautiful boys ❤️

[nulfaga]

idk why i am so compelled to write about marriages slowly breaking down even tho the couple love each other (nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates love from etc etc). do i call this the john darnielle instinct

[manglam-marfach]

dyke!Chilaios has me understanding breeding kink all of a sudden

[lunarharp]

Very important conferences.

[jellogram]

My mother always acts like I'm being an insufferable cunt because I hate being at home for so long and complain a lot but like. She would absolutely not survive my preferred lifestyle. If she lived out of a suitcase alone in shitty motels with no plan, she would go to pieces in 48 hours or less. But I try to live her lifestyle, one that is deeply unnatural and uncomfortable for me, and I'm a dramatic bitch who needs to get over it.

[july-19th-club]

forced myself to finish this book even though by the last hundred pages or so all i was doing was picking apart the post-catholicism of it all. bc i feel like it's important to read shit you don't gel with . just because. even though the whole way through i was like they HAVE to prove it's not real. they HAVE to. so not the point of any of it but i was desperate for them to Find The Body etc. and of course instead they have mystical time travel experiences and all that because that is the kind of book the actual star is but i was desperate for them to realize that the star you see is the actual star. and then it wasn't