#bc something something people making your symptoms about Them as if youre not the one who has to actually live with them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

beefboyandbabygirl · 1 year ago

Text

Pretend It's Someone That Came for You (18+)

pairing: coworker!wonwoo x fem!touch-starved!reader

genre: coworker au, office au, strangers to lovers, angst w a happy ending, smut (MDNI!!), fluffy fluffy fluff fluff

description: you're lonely. you're so lonely you think it might actually kill you. but when wonwoo transfers to your office, he might just change that fact.

warnings: unprotected sex (do NOT pls my babes), soft dom!wonwoo, sub!reader, v loving sex, praise (f. receiving), confession of love, riding, fingering (f. receiving), pussy rubbing tihi, pet names (pretty girl, good girl, baby, darling, etc), VERY angsty beginning, yn is truly v sad so DO NOT READ THIS if u fear it will make u sad!!, they say i love u unrealistically fast but i had to do it, yn uses sex to feel less lonely/ends up feeling more lonely, relatable yn frs, slightly dramatized symptoms of touch-starvation (?), kinda boring plot but idc bc its CUTE AF

quotes from my creative director (@joshibambi): "finally!!" (she was fed tf up), "stanley is the most stanley man ever. i hate him but i love him.", (more r coming she actually didnt have time 2 read this and i didnt want to wait with posting.)

wordcount: 10.0k

a/n: this story was supposed 2 have more angst, like it was supposed to have this whole misunderstanding, but it just didnt feel right, it made me sad, so instead this is a short n sweet love story xx

Sometimes you think that the loneliness might kill you.

You weren’t always like this. You remember being a sociable, joyful child; half-broken bikes and teddy bears and booster seats. You remember pigtails and popsicle sticks and Power Rangers, and what came after that? Being a moody teenager, became being a moody adult. High school became college, and college became an office job that served to keep you alive, even if it didn’t feel like being alive. College wasn’t that bad, you remember, so at what point had you mistaken isolation for privilege? And at what point had you gone too far into that tunnel-hole to turn back?

You must’ve been cursed, you think, putting on your outfit for work in the deadly still apartment. Dust dares not move, dares not give you hope that you are not alone.

You must’ve been cursed, you think, coming into work to a string of half-hearted, mumbled greetings. Your office is off-white and black and gray and everyone inhabiting it is also off-white and black and gray, and their skin is faintly oily and sickly and their faces are dragging down as if the very earth was reclaiming them and you think that you fit in here better than anywhere else.

You must’ve been cursed, you think, when you spend your day writing emails and organizing documents of information into different formats to send to huge corporations. Sometimes you fantasize about the other end of the transaction. Maybe their office is warm and brown with an accent of blue, and maybe people put hands on each other's shoulders, when they tell one another they’ve done a good job.

Yes, there’s no other explanation, you think, and can’t even muster the energy to feel bad when you blame some old hag from your hometown. You think she must’ve conjured up the worst ingredients, something cartoonishly evil, and a spell befell you, sunk into the crevices of your skin and dug into your pores.

You lie on your couch with a glass of wine and the television going, but you’re not really listening. You don’t think anyone has touched you in six months. You’re not even sure you’re real anymore. You swear, you could live with no one hearing you out, because you’re not sure you’d have anything worthwhile to say, but you just needed someone to touch you. To reach out a hand and confirm, you’re real, you’re right underneath my fingertips, and I’m squeezing your shoulder, and I see you, and I feel you right here.

Sometimes you think that the loneliness might kill you.

Lying physically very still, you still feel like you’re scrambling, fighting the clutch of the curse, and tugging on metal chains. Maybe that’s where all your energy goes.

What do normal people do when they feel this bad?

Sometimes you leave open the window, and when the wind tugs at your door, you pretend it’s someone that came for you.

Tug, tug, tug. The door rattles against its hinges when the fatally empty sky brings to you, in outstretched palms, the wind interlaced with glimmers of hope.

There’s never anyone at the door. _____________________________

This particular day starts like any other. You wake to your alarm and you put on clothes and you get ready and brush your teeth. Then you trample down to the bus stop. The sky is smothered by a duvet of heavy rain clouds. The rain hasn't come yet, but you know it will. Your fingers become stiff and hard, where they adhere to the polyester strap of your bag, massaging it. The bag is cold and dead.

The bus ride is by far the greatest part of your day. It’s quiet - early enough that you’re only accompanied by a few other souls. You rest your head on the window, vibrating gently against the curve of your forehead, and watch the people in the street.

The bus hums a gentle tune and snakes down the streets. Then you’re there, and whatever solace that it offers you under artificial light and mediocre, felted seats is gone.

Your office building is maybe the most depressing place on earth. It’s no glamorous feat of architecture. It is but a large, orange-y, puke-y, brick square, and the building is shared between yours and the Forester company. You don’t talk to the Foresters, but you know they eat cream cheese bagels on their breaks and throw birthday parties and once you saw the branch manager squeezing a salesman’s shoulder and telling him he had done a good job. His fingers squeezed down and the movement of the fabric revealed a shoulder pad built into the suit. You remember thinking it was a shame that it blocked the real touch.

Today, you walk up the stairs with heavy steps and you idle into the office building, eyes cast down to the dirty, gray carpet. You begin the long trek into the back of the building where your desk is located.

“Morning, Y/n,” mumbles Tina.

“Morning, Tina,” you mumble back.

“Morning, Y/n,” mumbles Gerard.

“Morning, Gerard,” you mumble back.

“Morning.”

“M-”

Wait a minute.

Your greeting falls short. You don’t recognize that voice. Stopping in your tracks, your shoes scratch on the rough carpet, and lift your head to see him.

The first thing you notice is that he’s the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen. He looks like he jumped out of an underwear commercial; he’s all strong jawline, sharp eyes, round glasses on his pretty nose, neatly trimmed, short dark hair stretching down the planes of his face. He’s wearing a button up (usually you wouldn’t even register the clothing your coworkers adorned, but something about how he wore it was noteworthy), a tie draping over the dress shirt, and formal slacks hugging his thighs.

He smiles at you sheepishly, hands nervously smoothing down his thighs.

“I’m Wonwoo” he says curtly, nodding to you. “Just transferred from the Wallingset branch.”

You nod. “Right. Wallingset,” you nod more. “Nice to meet you. I’m Y/n.”

“Nice to meet you too, Y/n.”

Something about your name on his lips makes your heart flutter. It’s pathetic, you know, but his peregrine being in his office chair, spilling your name from his pink lips makes you feel a little more real. You look at him and then you nod again-again, kicking your legs into gear again and walking the last stretch to your desk.

You can see the back of his head from your orange-wood desk. Papers and sticky notes are scattered among the desktop. The monitor watches you accusingly, all big and square and black, waiting for you to open it up and begin working. Your eyes linger on him for a moment. Then you work.

A few hours pass on emails and translating information from a company into a comprehensive sheet. However, today you’re having a hard time focusing on work.

This is not new.

Sometimes you briefly talk to a man at the grocery store, and your mind will wander to him for next week, wondering if he’s thinking about you too, imagining yourself cuddling with him, watching movies, imagining him telling you it’ll all be okay. Sometimes you briefly talk to a man on the street, sometimes it’s even a date, but whatever the case you obsess and you dream and you always end up alone.

Today the victim of your depraved mind is Wonwoo. The guilt is easy to push away. You feel sorry for yourself. You think you deserve this. You think you can’t survive without this. And so you imagine him hugging you, stroking your hair, and you imagine him falling in love with you, and you imagine not being alone. Your fingers rest on your keyboard. It’s old and mechanical. You think it’s from a yard sale, probably an old woman whose children moved away. It’s plastic, and it curves inwards underneath the pads of your fingertips. The keys are cold and dead.

You fully zone out, eyes blearing into the back of his head, but you don’t really see it, your mind has traveled elsewhere. You guiltily imagine his hand between your legs, on your chest, straddling him, kissing him. And it’s not rough, it’s loving, because in this world he loves you, and he’d do anything for you, and you don’t have to be alone again.

You don’t love Wonwoo. It’s not some magical love at first sight, it’s not a romance book, it’s real life. You’re lonely. You need this to survive.

“Hey, Y/n?”

You snap your head up. Maybe you were still daydreaming. But you recognized the voice well and true, and it was Wonwoo, leaned over your desk, hands in his pockets.

“Oh, uhm, hey-” your voice is shaky and you quickly rush to compose yourself, hands moving frantically and uselessly to glide papers over one another and, then, realizing that there was no point to your movements, stilling and looking up at him, cheeks flushed. “Hey.”

Wonwoo smiles gently. “Uh, you know, I was wondering,” he looks around the office, as if surveying the area. “If you knew where to get a good lunch? I don’t know this area at all, so..”

He trails off, looking at you expectantly for an answer. Now that he’s standing before you, it’s much harder to ignore the guilt you feel. You wanna gnaw at your nails until they’re nubs, you want to crawl under your desk and cover your eyes. Does he see how red your cheeks are?

“Uhm- well- I don’t- I eat a packed lunch, so I’m-”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I’m, uh, no expert,” you giggle awkwardly and watch his gentle smile drop into pursed lips. “But! Uh- I hear the- the hot dog stand, uh, just a little down the street is good!”

“Really? Maybe I should try it,” he contemplates, smile returning to his lips. “Would you mind showing me this mysterious hot dog stand?”

“Uh-”

Just seconds before you were thinking of his fingers in your pussy, and his hands caressing you, and him making you feel loved. He’s standing before you and he’s a totally normal guy, and you feel like shit. You feel like shit for using this fake image of him to comfort yourself. You can’t be around him, can’t convince yourself that maybe this’ll turn into something more - not when you always end up alone. Your brows furrow in determination.

“Actually, I have to, uh, get this done, so-” you gesture vaguely to your monitor.

“Right! Yeah,” Wonwoo seems embarrassed, biting his lips and nodding. “It’s, uh, just down the street?”

“Yeah, to the right when you walk out the building.”

“For sure. Thanks,” he doesn’t even look at you then, just waves you off half-heartedly and starts trailing down the office. His shoulders are incredibly broad and his belt wraps tightly around his small waist.

You feel like shit. _____________________________

Why is no one else cursed?

You look out of the window, lying on your bed after work. Everything is very still and unmoving - your whole apartment feels like it’s knotted in strings, tightened until everything is snapped into place, and if you move the wrong muscles, the invisible hands will let go and everything will fly and hurdle through your home, and you can almost hear the sound, like the hard, empty sound of throwing a bowling ball and getting a strike.

No one else is cursed. People crowd the streets with friends, family, partners, and they’re talking and laughing. You rest your head in the windowsill, a lone spectator in the window. The glass cuts you off from the streets.

The afternoon after daydreaming the way you did about Wonwoo is always hard. Your apartment seems intent on suffocating you. Your daydreams serve as a reminder that you’re alone, that you truly have no one, and the act itself is so humiliating, you sulk into a glass of red wine and sometimes you cry. What do normal people do when they feel this bad, you wonder again, sobbing in your bed and spilling wine on your nightie.

Nighttime falls early while you’re crying. You weep on and off, hug your knees, eat a microwave dinner and watch TV, light casting onto your pathetic form on the couch.

And in your most vulnerable state is when you most easily slip into your old habits.

You press an old contact in your phone, one you’d tried to steer away from recently. You wipe mascara from your reddened cheeks, you wear pretty lingerie, and you lie, completely empty, void of any warmth, on your bed, awaiting.

It’s the first time he touches you in months. When his hand finds your shoulder, you shudder terribly. Sorry, he says, and he seems taken aback. Just ignore it, you plead, just ignore it. He does so, unsurely, and every time his hand grazes over your body you shudder and sob and every time he hesitates, asking if you’re okay, you cry at him to continue.

It feels good while it’s happening. Skin beneath your fingertips, hands on you, a face close to yours. You and him are the only thing moving in the apartment, synergizing on your bed, conjoining and writhing, and for just a moment, you don’t feel so alone.

When you’re done the anonymous man stands back up, sliding on his pants in the late hour. He says it was great and you hum. But then he looks around, hesitating on every old piece of furniture, on every photo on the walls, and lastly on you.

“What?” you ask, lying naked in your bed. He grimaces at you, as if signaling that he can’t quite figure it out himself.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly, hands on his newly-clothed hips and surveying the corners of the room, where shadows pool. “It feels haunted in here.”

He leaves.

When the warmth is gone, the bile rises in your throat. Old habits die hard, you think, and you feel totally empty. You couldn’t go on like this. It was nights like these you began to feel like a martyr - sacrificing yourself for a brief escape. Because when the door is closed with a click and you’re alone again, you feel yourself trembling and your heart is glowing red in the empty astral plane. Brief, easy forms of pleasure are often the most harmful.

It feels haunted in here. You remember his words, and before you finally fall asleep, you wonder one thing. You wonder if you’re already dead. _____________________________

The next day is a pain to overcome. You’re slightly hungover, slightly sore, and very uncomfortable. But you comply with your routine, and you enjoy the bus ride, and when you get to the office everyone greets you.

“Morning, Y/n,” mumbles Tina.

“Morning, Tina,” you mumble back.

“Morning, Y/n,” mumbles Gerard.

“Morning, Gerard,” you mumble back.

“Morning, Y/n,” Wonwoo says. You look up from the carpet carefully, flashing him an apologetic smile. You hope he can read its intention: Sorry about being weird yesterday. You think he got it.

“Morning, Wonwoo.”

And then you’re landing yourself at your own desk and beginning work once more. It’s boring, but today you ward off the daydreams and you focus, and you’re getting an exceptional amount done.

The clock on the wall (off-white, but yellowing near the top) reads 12:28 when your boss, Stan, approaches your table. He’s half bald, and his suit is much too loose, and he has a ladder of wrinkles climbing his larger-than-life forehead.

“Hey, N/n!” he calls, so loud that a couple of heads turn at the commotion. You’ve asked him several times not to call you that.

“Stanley,” you breathe, tapping a stack of papers on your desk to neaten the pile. You wonder if you were in trouble, but if his smile is anything to go by, you’d guess not.

“My favorite woman in accounting!”

“Hehe,” you laugh half-heartedly. You catch the eye of Wonwoo, glancing over his shoulder with a small, teasing smile. You smile back.

“I have a big- oh wait, wait, new guy, uhh, Jeon? Come over here real quick!” Suddenly his solid fingers waft the now scared Wonwoo over. The spectacled man’s shoulders hunch up as he moves off the chair, nodding respectfully. Wonwoo stands beside Stanley at your desk, and you focus your attention on Stanley, hoping to not get too lost in the idea of Wonwoo again - you were doing so good today.

“I have a big job for you, and I thought you could work with Wonwoo on it,” Stan moves his hand up to cup the side of his mouth, as if telling you a big secret, “seeing as he was a bit of a star over in Wallingset.”

Shit. The guy you were daydreaming about was working with you? Wonwoo laughs, embarrassed, but you hardly have time to catch it. You can’t do this. Yesterday you were thinking about him fingering you while looking at you lovingly!

“We have a massive, new client! Just dropped a big competitor of ours, and they want us to do their six month report!” Stanley seems genuinely excited about this, so you can’t help feeling a little guilty that you’ll be a gobbering, slobbering mess, sitting beside Wonwoo on this.

“That’s great-”

“I know! So, my two star members in accountancy, I’ll hand this off to you. The data should be coming into your emails soon,” without letting either of you react, Stanley hunches over, like a coach does before a little-league baseball game, wrapping his arms around both of you and Wonwoo. “You got this, troopers!”

Stanley claps his hands on both of your backs, so hard you jerk forward at the movement, and then he bounces off to the elevator at the far end of the room. You sigh heavily from the interaction. It’s quiet for a moment, while you fiddle with the papers in front of you.

“What a guy,” Wonwoo muses finally, thin fingers resting on the edge of your desk. You giggle, unable to look him in the eye for fear that you might remember how you’d thought about starting a family with him. “Yeah.”

You and Wonwoo settle into an unoccupied meeting room, and it’s all very professional. Markers and post-its, trying to find the best way to structure the report, excel sheets to categorize and overlook data, double check numbers.

However bad you think it’s going to be, you’re wrong. Wonwoo is easy to talk to - he’s quiet, but he’s intelligent, and he understands how to bring on conversation, even when you fold in on yourself like a used napkin.

“Yeah, we used to steal signs from our neighborhood,” Wonwoo admits halfway into a conversation about your hometowns. “I don’t think that’s gonna fly anymore.”

“Why stop now? You’re letting societal rules hold you back,” you joke, and the two of you laugh, and it’s so pathetic, you’re certain you haven’t laughed this much in years, and the conversation has lasted maybe 20 minutes.

“Well, I could show you the craft, you know, it’s a delicate process-”

While Wonwoo talks your phone buzzes and you absent-mindedly pick it up, reviewing the notification.

Your grin drops. Faintly, you hear Wonwoo stop talking. He tilts his head to study the way you frown at the screen. “What’s up?” he asks.

It’s the guy from last night and he’s asking if you’ll be available again tonight.

Maybe it’s how you could almost forget it - how you let yourself into positions that would hurt you, just to feel seen and heard and touched. Maybe it’s the dichotomy of that encounter and now, talking to Wonwoo, and having the laughter steal away the loneliness. But you’re reminded so terribly of your position. You’re reminded that this, too, will end, and that the loneliness will return. You’re reminded that once the shift ends, you’re alone again.

Suddenly you’re a thousand daggers all pointing out. You shield yourself.

“Uh,” you trail off, putting the phone down again. “Just some guy.”

Wonwoo’s eyebrows raise. “Boyfriend?”

“No!” you say quickly. “No, he’s, uh. Just some guy.”

A pause.

“Okay,” Wonwoo says. You don’t even remember where you left off the conversation. You bite your lip because everything is all agony. The table is cold and dead beneath your hand.

“I’m thinking we group these together,” you say, eyes now tuned to your screen and fully submerged back into your work. Work. That was all that could cover your beaten down, cursed self.

The rest of the shift you feel Wonwoo looking at you carefully, as if he’s trying to read you. You don’t talk about yourselves anymore, no more banter, no more witty comments. You structure the report, and try to ignore how his eyes laser you open. You don’t like it. You feel like he can tell you’re a pathetic, lonely woman and that you have nothing and no one. You feel like he can sense the curse upon you.

This would be torture. _____________________________

It is not torture.

The next day, to your surprise, Wonwoo is nowhere to be seen. You wait 5, 10, then 15 minutes in the meeting room you’d camped in, before you begin working on your own. It’s slower without him, but you manage.

You can’t help but slightly worry about him. It feels stupid. You know you’re putting too much emotion into a person you’d known for two days, but you can’t help it. You wonder if he’s gotten hurt or injured, or if maybe he hates you and has transferred back. You think even Excel finds you pathetic.

You sit there for three hours, among the ruins of paperwork and your open laptop, running your hand through your hair and typing in sentences that mean nothing, and the wallpaper is off-white and yellowing at the top, and the blinds are closed to the meeting room.

Around 1 PM the door to the meeting room is opened, wood smacking against the glass that surrounds it, and Wonwoo stands in the doorway, slightly out of breath. You snap your head up to him, like the jerk of a lifeless doll, suddenly interrupted from a very disorganized Excel sheet.

“Hi, shit, sorry,” he gasps, slinging his bag off of his shoulder to sit down next to you.

“Are you okay?” you ask immediately, and Wonwoo nods blindly, pulling his laptop out of his bag. “Yeah,” he says, cheeks slightly flushed and licking his lips. “My cat- my cat needed surgery, she got sick last night, it was an emergency.”

You nod in understanding, “it’s okay-”

You can hardly get the words out before Wonwoo rolls his chair back, wheels resounding hollowly on the floor, so he can look at you clearly. “I’m really sorry about this, it was not nice of me to leave you alone with this.” He gestures vaguely to the scattered papers, and you shake your head.

“It’s okay, Wonwoo, I get it,” you say reassuringly, peering up at him through your lashes. “You don’t need to worry about it. You’re here now.”

Wonwoo seems less intent on personal conversations today - it’s probably because he was so late, and now is trying to make up the time. But it’s okay, in fact you’re somewhat relieved, because it dampens the false hope that blooms in your chest, whenever he asks you about your life.

Even if you and Wonwoo work hard and quietly, you slip into the late hours of the night in an attempt to keep on track for your schedule. Outside the windows that separate you from real life, the sky turns orange, and then dark, muted blue, and stars begin dotting its impressive stretches. People begin to leave around five, and by the time you and Wonwoo finish all your work, you’re the last ones left on your floor of the office.

Wonwoo lets out a loud sigh when he finally finishes the second segment of your report, and the both of you slump back in your seats.

“It’s so fucking late,” Wonwoo limply throws his hand in the direction of the window. You smile a little, looking out. Smaller buildings spawn geometrically from the ground, and every once in a while someone walks by with their dog, spotlighted by the stretch of street lamps that stand outside the parking lot. “I really am sorry about this, you know. Really ruined your night,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “It’s fine, I had nothing to come home to anyway.”

There’s a pause.

Wonwoo looks at you intensely. Oh shit, you realize, was that too obvious? Was that too pathetic? Has it just clicked that you’re a loser that no one wants? You nervously look back at him, but there’s no malice in his eyes. A totally unreadable expression adorns his features, where he’s leaned back in his leather chair, legs spread invitingly. You look away, feeling dumb.

“At least we followed our schedule!” you say. Wonwoo snorts.

“Yeah, thanks to you. If you hadn’t completed so much before I got here, it would’ve been hopeless.”

Now it’s your turn to scoff, blushing lightly and looking at the linoleum flooring. “I don’t know about tha-”

“Seriously, Y/n, just take the compliment,” Wonwoo reaches a hand over, and you watch its movement.

It’s like time slows down, not like the movies, no, like you can stop time with the heavy weight of your gaze, pinning his muscles in place. But you can’t, and it lands on your shoulder with a soft thud. Fuck. His hand is warm and alive on you.

“You did so well today, I-” Wonwoo cuts himself off, because suddenly you’re trembling.

He feels your body shuddering and jerking under his hand, like the wind rattles your door when you leave it open, and he can’t see your face behind a curtain of hair, but he hears you gasp, and, fuck, you look like you’re sobbing.

The man from last night had become so hesitant when you reacted this way. When your body trembled and shook and when you cried, but Wonwoo seems to understand. He peers at you from above the rims of his glasses, and his hand stays put right there on your shoulder.

“Y/n,” he whispers, so sincere it causes a pathetic squeak to escape you. What must he think of you? The thoughts spiral and you can’t control a single one of them, they dance like freed souls in your head, and you can’t stop the spasming of your muscles, and you know you look so pathetic beside him right. “Y/n, look at me.”

You don’t. You can’t. You can’t because there are tears spilling from the rims of your eyes, and rolling down your cheeks, wet and glossy. Besides, you’re an ugly crier.

“Look at me,” he says seriously, finger tightening on your shoulder. You try to steady your breath and calm your tears, before you obey and begin to turn your chair. The simple motion requires so much effort - it’s like the air has become so thick, that the friction against your leather seat slows you down.

Finally you turn to him, eyes first resting on his knees, then, carefully, traveling up to his face. He’s frowning.

Your face is reddened and your eyes are puffy, your cheeks are shiny and you chew your bottom lip in a futile attempt to keep the tears at bay.

Wonwoo looks genuinely devastated. The hand on your shoulder softens its grasp, then begins petting your arm, rubbing up and down. The action has you choking out gasps, trembling even more in his hold, and Wonwoo feels the need to roll his chair closer to you, so his other hand can grab yours. His thumb rubs over the back of it, and he lowers his head to look at you.

“Shh, relax, relax, Y/n,” he whispers, and you try to nod, but it’s so overwhelming; being touched, being seen, being heard, all at once. For months, maybe years, no one has touched you like this - as if they care. Now the feeling is foreign, so scorching hot on your arm and your hand, your body can’t take it anymore. You’re stuck between wanting to lean into his hands, wanting to feel how real you are, and how physically true your existence is, and wanting to shy away. What must he think of you?

“Y/n,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut to banish the sigh of your sobbing. “When was the last time someone touched you?”

You hiccup painfully. “Uhm- I- I don’t, ” your eyes are bleary and your lashes are wet. Your lip trembles and your whole body shakes when you try to breathe.

Apparently this was enough of an answer for Wonwoo, because he suddenly stands, somewhat harshly tugging you into a standing position too, and pulls you directly into the harbor of his arms.

Instinctively, you wrap your arms around his torso. His chest is pressed flat against yours, so, so warm, when he nudges your head into the crook of his neck, and presses his face against its side, sighing softly into you, and breathing warm air onto your hair. His palms push you into him, soothing your trembling body, and holding you like an anker. One hand travels up to your hair.

“W-Wonwoo, you don’t have to-”

“Shh,” he quiets you immediately, voice the softest wind of a peach tree. “Just let me take care of you.”

You do. Wonwoo holds you until you stop crying, and though it must’ve been twenty minutes or so, it feels like no time at all. Standing in his space, breathing in his dark cologne, and letting his heat thaw your dead heart is a totally timeless act. Joy and serenity flows from the places where your bodies touch. When you stop crying, Wonwoo holds you for longer.

Eventually, he lets you go.

You step back sheepishly, now much calmer and the red in your face faded. You wipe your tired eyes shyly with your sleeve.

“Thank you, Wonwoo,” you mumble, voice thick and garbled. When you look up at him, he smiles softly, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says softly, arm extending one last time to squeeze your forearm. Then it falls limp again.

“I, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course.”

When you return home, you’re buzzing. Your entire apartment buzzes along with you, things seem to clatter and beam along with the bright, glowing of your heart. You snuggle into bed and nothing is still and even when you’re drifting into sleep, your nerve endings spin in joyful circles, and your feet are a static hum. Suddenly you are very, very real. _____________________________

You’d think the next day would be tense and awkward, and maybe it is at first, but soon enough you’re talking again, more intimately than before even.

This is Wonwoo’s doing - you know this. You know he’s smart and you know he doesn’t want you to feel bad, so he makes conversation and builds trust between the two of you. You know he hopes you don’t feel insecure. Every word he says and every flick of his eyes is riddled with it.

The conversation decidedly slows down your progress, so Wonwoo once more suggests staying overtime. You look at him for a moment before agreeing.

You can’t tell what his end goal is. A chamber of your heart has been revived and rebirthed, and you’re more chipper, more bouncy, but the rest of your heart insists: you’re still cursed - eventually it’ll go back to how it should be. You listen. You try not to get your hopes up that Wonwoo really cares about you. Why should he, really?

Although when you’re done for the day, about an hour after your usual 5 PM, you stand up and begin to pack your things, laptop sliding into your bag and clustering pens in your hand. It’s gray outside, but the sun comes in a single strand through a gap in the smog and the clouds. The wind hoots by the windows, and it smells like the indian you ordered for lunch together.

You stop your packing, feeling a set of eyes in your back. You twist your head to see him.

Wonwoo is sitting completely still in his chair, slack-covered legs spread open, and he makes no move to collect his own things. He just stares.

“What’s up?” you quip. You’re slightly nervous. Just before it was all silly childhood stories, college and weed and life before the dead-end job. Now Wonwoo has that unreadable expression on his face again.

He slowly lifts his hands from the armrest, eyes locked with yours, and claps his palms on the tops of his thighs.

Your eyebrows furrow.

“Wha-”

“Come here,” he says simply. When you stand completely still, like a deer in the headlights, Wonwoo scoffs and rolls his eyes. “What? You think you’re cured because someone hugged you once?”

“Cured?”

“You’re touch-starved, Y/n,” Wonwoo states matter-of-factly, “you need to be touched.”

“Touch-starved?” you echo, a bewildered expression on your face.

“We can also just hug, like yesterday,” he suggests calmly. You envy his collectedness. “I just don’t want you to feel bad. So please. Come sit.”

To emphasize, Wonwoo pats his thighs again, patiently. You step away from your bag with hesitating steps, pursing your lips. Your cheeks blaze when you look at his thighs again - they’re so long, and the folds in his slacks stretch down and centralize on his crotch and- You’re being a pervert.

“Okay,” you squeak and Wonwoo tuts. Why is that hot, you think, why the hell is that hot?

“We can just hug if you-”

You feel bold.

Without letting him finish, you swing your leg over his, and plop down, straddling halfway down his thighs. You thank God you put pants on this morning instead of a skirt, when you look down at where you rest on top of him.

Wonwoo is a little taken aback, but when you’ve settled on him, his hands find your waist and he looks up at you with a hum. Your breathing is a little shaky. Once again his hands provide a pumping of golden joy into your body, and more of you comes alive and becomes real, and you smile.

What had Wonwoo been talking about? Touch-starved?

“What’s, um-” your question is cut off with a gasp, when Wonwoo uses his hands on your middle to tug you closer. You rest on the highest point of thighs that you can without sitting on his dick. Cheeks red and eyes squeezed shut, you hear how Wonwoo hums, pleased. “What were you talking about? Touch-starved?” you whisper, keeping your eyes shut.

Wonwoo sighs, and once more, like the movement is entirely replayed, his hand finds your hair and pushes your face into the crook of his neck. You sigh against it, enjoying how his arms protect you and hide you from the evil of the world.

“If you don’t touch anyone,” Wonwoo begins, his voice low bass in your ear, “you become touch-starved. That’s why you reacted the way you did yesterday.”

His hands run up and down your sides.

“But- but I’m not crying today,” you say quietly into his neck. Wonwoo hums.

“No, that’s good,” he says. “We can stop if you really want, I just wa-”

“No!” your voice squeaks immediately, and, as if he were running from you, you fist his shirt to keep him close.

“Okay,” there’s a smile in Wonwoo’s voice. You can’t see it but you can imagine it.

Comfortable silence. Wonwoo traces patterns on your back and you breathe deeply against the skin of his neck. The two of you function as one living thing, the only living thing left in the office. Chairs are turned halfway, a couple lights are left on. The desks betray the past presence of humans.

“Wonwoo,” you pip.

“Mhm?”

“You don’t have to do this, you know? I don’t want you to do it if you- if it’s just.. Pity.”

Wonwoo sighs, and you feel the way his torso deflates underneath you. He trails his hand up from your back to tap your cheek. You move back and look at him.

Your faces are very close, you can feel how your exhales collide and then scatter, hell, you think you could count each of his eyelashes from here.

“I already told you. I’m doing this because I don’t want you to feel bad. I-” he hesitates for a moment, pursing his lips. “I’ve been there. So I know what it’s like.”

The thought of Wonwoo feeling like this, like you, is sickening. Genuinely sickening, you feel your insides turn to rot and mold and you frown so deeply, you think your lips might forever lock in that position.

“I’m okay now,” he reassures, reading you immediately. His hand finds your cheek and he almost cries out at the way you lean into it blindly.

“How did you-.. I- I always thought it was, like, a lifelong curse,” you say.

“A curse?” Wonwoo grins, thumb stroking over the skin of your cheek. It makes you happy, it makes you feel like your heart will burst.

“Yeah. I guess I just blamed some old woman from my hometown,” you giggle, blushing a little because, yes, it did sound stupid when you weren’t just echoing the theory to yourself, like playing a team sport alone.

“You’re not cursed,” Wonwoo promises, tucking your head into his chest. “I’ll help you, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you from now on.”

He does take care of you.

Every day you work overtime, and every day when you’re done with work, Wonwoo slides you into his lap and holds you, while you curl up in his chest. Then you talk and you laugh, and you listen to each other's music. His hands run warm up your back and in your hair and on your hips, gentle caresses, deeply intimate. For two weeks you and Wonwoo indulge in this nighttime ritual.

You have not felt lonely since that night. And Wonwoo can tell. Your skin is warmer and brighter, you smile wider, your eyes twinkle, and there’s energy in every movement. Your body thaws under his warm hands every night, and sometimes when you smile, he gets so happy he could kiss you.

You realize you like Wonwoo one particular night when you’re falling asleep in your bed and you can still feel the ghost of his arms around you and it lulls you into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when you wake up you smell a little bit like his cologne. That’s how you realize. You like how considerate and how gentle he is, you like how sweet he is to you, you like how he looks when he smiles and when he laughs and you like how much he loves his cat. You like how his arms feel wrapped around you.

And you like him, and suddenly your apartment is a song that you dance in, and every photo on your walls is smiling and your bed is always warm and so is your heart.

There’s nothing dead in here, you think, when you cook a delicious meal on the stovetop, sauce bubbling in a stainless steel pan. Nothing haunted about your home or your heart. _____________________________

“We’re almost done.”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t believe we’re almost done!”

Wonwoo looks up, bemused, lips made small and pointed. You’re staring at the almost-done document, scrolling up and down through long and arduous paragraphs. It’s nighttime again - not that you had to stay late today, it was a choice - and the city glimmers brilliantly in the coolness. You and Wonwoo wear sweaters to keep warm.

“Feels like a lifetime,” Wonwoo murmurs, same smile upon his beautiful face. His cheekbones point out from beneath his skin.

“Yeah,” you breathe, leaning back. You won’t put your fingers back on the keyboard. Not when it could be done so soon. You look at him, all snuggled up in a brown sweater. “What if..”

A pause. He tilts his head.

“Well, are we still gonna talk?” you chew your lip dejectedly, feeling a little sad and desperate, but Wonwoo only laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, it’s one you associate with joy.

“Of course,” he says, as his laughter quiets down. “If you want to.”

A shy smile forms on your lips. You turn to look back at the computer, but you hear the now-familiar sound of Wonwoo patting his thighs. You flit your eyes back to him, teasingly scolding.

“We’re not done.”

“We don’t have to be done now,” he shrugs, an equally teasing smile on his lips. You roll your eyes, but, unsurprisingly, you shift over to him, sitting down in his lap. He immediately tugs you closer, fingers searching for stimulation on the seams of your jeans. There’s something different about Wonwoo today, you realize, his touch is more feverish, his fingers dig deeper into the fat of your hips and he looks up at you like you’re a diamond-encrusted chandelier, hanging from the ceiling, all glittering jewels.

“What’s up?” you giggle nervously. It’s becoming hard to breathe with the way he paws at your hips.

There’s something in the air between you, but maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe it’s your mind playing tricks on you, concocting the magnetic pull that lingers between you, the thicker, heavier air, that urges you closer.

He sighs heavily, as if he was dreading this. All of a sudden composed, cool, icy Wonwoo is chewing his lip and avoiding your eyes, looking instead down where your fat gives way for his needy fingers.

“I, uh, I really like you, Y/n,” his voice shakes. “Would you. Maybe. Want to go out some time?”

At the last syllable his gaze locks on to yours, and you watch him visibly relax, because you’re fucking grinning.

Not maliciously, not crudely, not a dime or a dab of evil, only genuine joy.

“I-I would like that,” you control your smile, pointing your lips in the same way that Wonwoo does and blushing all over. Wonwoo grins too and it’s unbearably boyish.

“Okay,” he says, as if he can’t believe it. “Okay. Great.”

The window slams shut, the spell is undone by his hand, the dead defy their only law to bow to his necromancy. Wonwoo is alive and warm underneath you, and you are alive and warm on top of him, thighs pushed up against his and tugging at the fabric of his shirt. Your balloon of heart pops in your chest, and the bone-cage of your chest is filled with helium, that has you floating. Rosy and shiny, your heart beats at twice its normal speed.

There’s a lull in the conversation. It would’ve been a more comfortable silence, if you couldn’t see by how Wonwoo looks down and purses his lips, that he’s itching to say more.

Sparked by his confession, you confidently snake your hand up to tap his cheek lazily. He turns to you with a loafy smile. “What is it?”

He breathes out unsteadily.

“You’re-” he closes his eyes. “There’s so much I like about you. It- It makes me feel really bad that you weren’t feeling well, so I-”

He cringes at himself, one hand pushing away his glasses to rub the eyes underneath them.

“Can I make you feel better?” he asks vaguely.

You huff out a laugh. “Are you trying to ask if I want to have sex?”

He laughs too, behind his big hand. “No. It’s not the same, I want it to be about you!”

You laugh more, and Wonwoo’s face reappears as he lowers his hand. He looks up at you adoringly, dotingly. He’s smiling.

“I’m being serious,” he says quietly, when you finish. He seems less embarrassed now, more so smug. “I want to make you feel good.”

He’s paying an awful lot of attention to your hips, which he has not let up massaging and squeezing roughly.

“Can I..?” he begins, eyes fixed on your hips in his lap. “Can I make you cum?”

Then, slowly, Wonwoo lifts his hands and gently places them around on your face. His touch is always as soft as a hope-laced wind. He’s warm and he’s alive and he’s holding onto you, and you see it in his eyes: you’re real, you’re right underneath my fingertips.

“Please.”

That’s all he needs, before he presses his lips against yours.

The kiss is everything you want it to be; because it’s loving. It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s gentle, there’s no tongue, just the soft, warm, real, alive flows of his lips against your own. His hands on both of your cheeks caress your cheekbones gently, and warm air is spilled in the small space between you. He pulls away, panting.

“I don’t understand it,” he mumbles, before he’s pressing his lips back to yours hungrily. You let out a confused hum, and you have to gently push at his shoulder to back him off again. “What do you mean?” you ask.

“Why you were so alone,” he breathes, transfixed on your lips. “I want to be with you all the time.”

Before you can respond, Wonwoo grips the underside of your thighs, lifting you and himself from the chair and placing you on the desk. You gasp at the impact when the glass table meets your bottom, and Wonwoo is standing over you, suddenly so tall and so broad, and slimming at the waist. His narrow eyes become hooded behind the reflection of his glasses. His head is tilted down to meet yours.

“Can I take off your clothes, pretty?”

You don’t answer, only grip the edge of your shirt, tugging it over your head, so your bra-clad chest is exposed to him. He groans at the sight.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles, nimble fingers dancing across your back to unclip the bra, sucking in a harsh breath the fabric becomes loose, sliding down your arms. “Such a pretty girl.”

“Stop,” you whisper, face warm and red. Your heart has never beat this way. It’s utterly unbearable and addicting at the same time, it’s without rhythm or class, it’s wild. And it’s because he’s looking at you and it’s not just lust. It’s adoration. There are deeper strings to the make-up of his eyes, there are lines connected to his heart, and he’s all flushed.

“What?” he asks. “I’m just telling you the truth.”

Wonwoo throws your bra on the floor next to him, hands finding the hem of your pants. “Can I take your pants off?”

You nod, still so shy and abashed, because Wonwoo’s eyes feel like a pink spotlight, and you are bathed in its warmth. He unbuttons your pants and you gently slide off the table to work them off your legs.

“Your panties are cute,” Wonwoo remarks (it should feel lewd, but he has a hand on your hip, that brushes the bone and he smiles at it). “Thank you,” you breathe, before you’re taking them off too.

Wonwoo doesn’t need to, but he still insists on gently lifting you back onto the table, and he kisses your nose when you’re sitting before him. He’s standing in between your legs, and then he’s looking down at where wetness drips onto the glass table.

His hand slides down your stomach, resting on the fat of it. He’s smiling, he’s so gorgeous, because he’s smiling the most gentle smile at how wet you are and how it leaks onto the table and his hand is so warm on your stomach, doing nothing, yet turning you on even more than you’d ever been before.

He sighs like he’s carrying the greatest burden on his broad back. “You’re so pretty,” he says, almost exasperated by it. He pinches some of the fat of your stomach between his fingers lovingly. “I can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

Then the hand on your stomach slides down further. His large, veiny hand cups your pussy, the tips of his fingers just barely teasing your hole. You whimper against him, hands finding his biceps for support. Wonwoo studies you, craning his neck down to peer at your face, while his fingers begin swaddling your folds.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he mumbles, trying to catch your eye where you bury into his chest. One finger dips into your hole, penetrating slowly and settling knuckle-deep.

“Wonnie!” you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Mmm, clenching down on Wonnie’s finger so hard. My beautiful girl.”

He begins pushing his finger in and out of you, pace slow and torturous. His other hand slides up and down your body, squeezing your waist then your thigh, then coming right back up to fondle your chest. He pushes your back flat against the glass, so you’re all splayed out for him and you watch him from there, eyes hooded and legs spread to accommodate him. He breathes in shakily at the sight of you.

“Shit, Y/n. What were you doing hiding all this from me?” His finger picks up the pace, as another finger slips in alongside it. You’re moaning and panting, lips red and hair mussed, unable to focus on his words, when his fingers curl against that spongy spot inside you. Apparently Wonwoo expects an answer though, because he speaks again, voice lower and rougher. “Hm? You didn’t want to go have lunch? What, was it that guy?”

“W-What?”

“Just some guy,” Wonwoo echoes your past words, emphasizing with a harsh thrust of his fingers.

“N-No, I- Hng!” you cry out, when Wonwoo’s thumb presses onto your clit. He rubs it torturously. “I-I was embarrassed because I- I was thinking about you!”

“Oh?” this catches Wonwoo’s attention, as he diligently works his hand within you, staring down at your naked form, fully clothed and tall. “Tell me what you were thinking about, baby.”

“This!” you cry out, too high off the pleasure to really feel embarrassed about it.

“Pretty, sweet, dumb baby. You were thinking about you whimpering and writhing while I fuck you with my hand, hm?”

“N-No,” you mumble, cheeks aflame. “W-Was thinking about you l-liking me.”

At this Wonwoo hastily leans over you, pressing his lips onto yours again, and this time his tongue pries open your mouth, wet and warm in the cavern of your mouth. You moan into the kiss, hips canting into his hand. There’s something so desperate about him then, something so eager in the way he crooks his fingers, and how he kisses you, panting and covering your face in warm air. You feel a tight knot in your stomach.

“Cum on my fingers, please, pretty, sweet, baby, darling,” he mumbles into your mouth, rushing out the words before he’s sealing your lips again.

“God, I think I might fall in love with you.”

That makes you cum. You cum so fucking hard, clenching around his fingers like an air-tight seal, and your cum spills onto his fingers and his name spills into his mouth. The curse comes out with it, escaping like the air that spills out from an ancient, rediscovered chamber, and dissipating into the night. Your heart is beating and you’re breathing into his mouth, nose brushing his.

“Good girl,” he breathes, finally releasing your lips and letting his lips fall heavy and wet on your cheek.

He pulls out his fingers, unbearably wet and slick, and you think for a second that he’ll let you calm down and then maybe he’ll put his dick in you, but as soon as the fingers are out of you, they’re settling back on to your clit, rubbing heavy-handed circles.

You whine, arching your back off the table and wiggling your hips at the overstimulation. His other hand catches your hip and he shushes your cries softly.

“You can cum again, can’t you, baby? You can take it,” he says, so nonchalantly, while his slick fingers rub you. You cry out. Your legs are shaking. “Think you can cum again from just this?”

“Y-Yes,” you sigh and when you look down, his entire hand covers your pussy, as he pets your clit in circles. He smiles at your words, pinching your clit teasingly. It causes a squeak to escape you, hips struggling against his hold, where he pins you to the table.

“Good girl,” he praises, purring. “Letting me use your pretty pussy like this, letting me make you feel good.”

His body in front of you prevents your legs from closing, but, God, do they try, knees pinching his thin waist, and hair bunching up on the glass when your face scrunches up in pleasure.

“A-a-ah!” you cry out. Your hips involuntarily begin to inch away from him, but Wonwoo pulls you back with one strong hand, tutting.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters, pouting. “You need to be touched, remember?”

The whole thing is so heart-achingly intimate. The way he stands, still fully clothed and with a huge fucking tent in his pants, simply rubbing your pussy and looking at you with heart-eyes. Seriously, eyes swimming with adoration for you, teasing words slipping from his mouth unable to mask the genuine wonder he feels, at how you gasp and you arch and you clean and you jerk from the simplest of his movements. And your pussy is so warm and wet under his hand, and his body between your legs is so warm, and you cum again from just that; from how much love he looks at you with, and from the fingers crooking to pinch your clit again, wet and swollen underneath his glistening fingertips.

“W-Wonwoo!” you cry out, cumming again, and your body convulses around his, when it oozes out of your hole. Wonwoo’s fingers gently work you through it. His gaze on you is so intent, so careful and insistent, you can’t bear it, the way he sees you totally lost in the pleasure he brings you.

“There you go,” he whispers gently, fingers letting up and disappearing from your pulsating pussy.

“Wonwoo,” you mewl tiredly, pushing yourself onto your elbows to look up at him. He looks at you, so sweetly, so attentively, hands immediately finding your back to stabilize you. “Can I please have your cock now?”

“We don’t have to-”

“I want to!” you interrupt him, brows furrowed and lips in a pout. Wonwoo grins at that and though he may deny it, you don’t miss the red that twinges his cheeks.

“It’s just if you were too tired..-”

“I’m not,” you say decidedly, and Wonwoo nods.

“Okay. C’mere then.”

You’re confused when Wonwoo sits back down in the office chair, fingers working his slacks open. He doesn’t answer to your grimace though, only manages his pants unzipped and in one lift of his hips, peel both them and his boxers down.

His cock springs free, and your confused grimace is replaced with one of awe. It’s pale and veiny, the head is red and thin, white liquid oozes from it, like melted candle wax. And it’s huge.

You’re too slow to mask your amazement, it seems, because when your eyes return to his face, he’s already looking at you, smiling smugly.

“Come ride me, baby.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You slide off the table eagerly, lumbering over to where he’s relaxed against the back of the chair. He looks up at you, all naked and pretty, with a grin.

The top buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned, but he must’ve given up halfway. Either way, the milky plates of his chest are exposed, shining gloriously in the warm office light, and he discards his glasses, face fully exposed to you. He’s beautiful, and you think to tell him.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper, planting each leg around his, so you’re straddling him. Like your ritual, Wonwoo grips your middle and pulls you closer, but this time it’s even closer than normal. Your stomach meets his dick, all heavy and hot on your skin, and your breath hitches at the sensation.

“You’re beautiful,” he teases, looking up at you. You smile.

“Can I put it in?” you ask.

“As if the answer was ever gonna be no?”

You snort out a laugh, raising yourself by your thighs and gripping the base of his dick to steer him inside. He hisses at the feeling of your hand grappling with his impressive size, and he hisses once more when the head of his cock buries into your heat.

His hands on your waist anchor himself while you slowly sink down, until he’s so fully sheathed in you, you think the tip of his cock must be brushing your heart, because it feels like it’s swinging in your chest.

“You’re so big,” you whimper, clutching his broad shoulders, and scrunching the fabric on top of them.

“Don’t say shit like that, I’m gonna cum, babe,” he grits out, fingers bruising your waist. You mewl, clutching his shirt. Then you begin to bounce.

Your thighs flex on either side of him as you heave up and down his cock, the both of you gasping into each other, and clutching each other for stability.

“Shit,” he pants out, genuinely out of breath. “Fuck, you’re the loveliest girl in the world.”

You cry out, pressure already welling in your stomach and burying yourself in his neck like you’ve always done, and it’s so intimate and he’s warm, and, fuck, he wants you. You can feel it in his grip, in his cock, in his words; he wants you more than anything. The thought makes you wanna cum.

Wonwoo is not quiet at all. He grunts and whines and his words are strangled and garbled, but frequent, showering you in affection and praise, while you bounce eagerly on his huge cock.

“You’re so pretty, baby.”

“Your tits are so perfect, shit.”

“Pretty girl.”

“Loveliest, prettiest, sweetest girl, bouncing on my cock, fuck.”

Praises spill from his lips in purrs, one after another, and when you cum you can’t help but return it tenfold.

“Wonwoo, Wonwoo, Wonnie, fuck! Gonna- fucking cum, I think I’m- f-falling in love with you”

You and Wonwoo come alive. Cum spurts from his cock and into your pussy, and you both cry out, entangled and completing one another in the space where you meet.

And it’s true, falling in love with him is so easy. And falling in love with you is easy too, you realize, because the second he’s spilled his cum in you, he pulls you from his neck to kiss you so deeply, so thoroughly, you think your lips might never unpuff from his hasty, bitten kisses.

His cock, now soft, still inside you, his warm chest against yours, his nose nudging yours, his eyelashes fluttering against your skin, the kiss is totally perfect, and you’re warm, and the windows are all closed and fogged up and there’s no curse other than the most fatal and most perfectly tantalizing of them all: love.

You are not alone. You’re sitting in his lap and you think if you give it a day or two more, you might want to spend the rest of your life with him.

You catch your breaths.

“You’re really good at that,” you say finally. He grins again, perfectly undone, hair tousled and cheeks flushed. “Yeah?” he asks. You hum.

After some minutes of keeping him inside you, kissing lazily, running your hands over his pretty chest and arms, you pull back, beginning to flex your legs to pull him out of you.

“What are you doing?” he asks, hands wafting to still your movements. You furrow your brows, confused.

“Am getting your dick out of me?”

His hands sink down on your hips heavily, fully encompassing his dick again. You sigh at the feeling.

“Don’t do that, silly. You’re touch-starved, remember?”

He tilts his head teasingly.

“So why don’t you just sit snug on my cock, so you can get all the closeness you need?”

#jeon wonwoo x reader #smut #wonwoo smut #jeon wonwoo smut #svt smut #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #svt angst #wonwoo angst #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x you

2K notes · View notes

lastoneout · 9 months ago

Text

Hey @ my fellow bitches and besties who deal with a lot constipation/gas/bloating because of IBS or other digestive issues!!

Did you know there's a way to deal with it at home on your own without medication?? Because my doctor sure didn't fucking tell me about this!! But I just tried it because my gas always makes me SO fucking nauseous that I can barely function and it takes like an hour for my nausea and IBS meds to kick in, but I always feel the urge to rub my stomach when I'm bloated, so my Wikipedia boyfriend ass googled it and YEP MASSAGING IS BACKED UP BY SCIENCE.

The article does say to not do this if you have recently had abdominal surgery, but here's the method:

"To perform abdominal massage on yourself.

Lie flat on your back with your belly exposed.

Overlap your hands on your lower belly and hold them here as you focus on your breath.

Warm your hands by rubbing them together for about 30 seconds.

Apply any oils that you’re using.

Use the palm of your hand to massage your entire stomach in a clockwise direction several times.

Then massage the centerline of your abdomen, starting below your sternum and ending at your pubic bone.

Do three more lines an inch apart down the left side of the abdomen.

Do the same on the right side of the abdomen.

Then press your fingers into your navel firmly.

Continue massaging with gentle pressure and circle outward from your navel in a clockwise direction.

You can spend extra time on specific areas or trigger points that feel like they need some extra attention.

Do this for up to 20 minutes.

If you don’t feel comfortable massaging yourself, you can also have your abdomen massaged by a massage therapist. Call before you make your appointment to see if the therapist performs abdominal massage. Not all masseuses provide this service."

I also found a slightly different one from the University of Michigan!

"Massaging your stomach can help to move stool along the inside of your colon. It may help relieve symptoms of tightness, pressure, cramping, and bloating.

Start on the right side of your stomach down by the bone of your pelvis.

Rub in a circular motion lightly up to the right side till you reach your rib bones.

Move straight across to the left side.

Work your way down to the left to the hip bone and back up to the belly button for 2-3 minutes.

Rub with your fingertips in a circular motion. You may press a little deeper with your fingers.

Spend about 1 minute moving from the right hip bone to the right ribs then 1 minute across the middle (gently) and then 1 minute down to the left bone by your pelvis to the belly button.

Repeat rub, always in a clockwise motion, for 10 minutes."*

I was literally so nauseous from being bloated that I couldn't even swallow food without feeling like I was going to puke, but I did the second one just sitting up at my desk, clockwise like they both said(I'm assuming bcs that's the direction things travel through your gut) and within like 2 minutes I felt better. I cannot BELIEVE no one has ever recommended this. Fucking life-changing. I used to just sit there and drink sprite and hope it was over soon and now I don't have to do that!! And if people already know about this that's good but like, again, no one EVER told me about this so if this can help even ONE person who struggles like I do I'll consider it a win!

Also, for clarification, I'm not advocating ditching your meds obvs, I just know it takes a while for pills to kick in and I don't think people should have to be miserable while they wait when there's something easy you can do to get some quick relief.

(*I added more bullet points to the second method because the wall of text was a little hard to read.)

#IBS #actually disabled #chronic disability #chronic illness #save #fav

489 notes · View notes

bardic-inspirjaytion · 20 days ago

Text

Right.

We didn't want to be in this position, but here we are. Americans, I'm so sorry. The coming years are going to be rough, and not everybody will make it through, and we still need to look out for each other and fight like hell for one another anyways.

The point of this post? Everything you were told after the repeal of RvW has a LOT more urgency now.

If you are someone in the age bracket and with the anatomy that could become pregnant,

If you were using an app to track your cycle, now you're absolutely fucking not. Switch to something analog that can be destroyed, and/or keep it cryptic enough that you have deniability that's what it's for. You are NOT giving anybody any ammunition here.

Likewise, no texting or messaging anything about your intimate health that you wouldn't want used against you. It won't hurt you to learn how to use apps like Signal and VPNs to obscure your online traffic now, even if things are still legal in your state. Got it? Good.

IF IT'S MEDICALLY VIABLE FOR YOU, INVESTIGATE GETTING AN IUD. Yes, the procedure to get one implanted sucks, it can hurt a lot and making the arrangements might cause you some gender dysphoria. But it can be effective at preventing pregnancy for YEARS once it's in there, and a lot of people who rely on hormonal BC to treat medical conditions find it gives them some continuing relief from their symptoms even if their daily medication stops being available. I am not a doctor; obviously this isn't qualified medical advice, and you need to seek such before undergoing any procedure. This is just a reminder that, if you've been putting this off, get it done now if it's safe and available to you.

Watch each other's backs, now more than ever. If somebody tells you sensitive information about their medical status, especially on the reproductive front, no they fucking didn't. If you know or suspect somebody is undergoing a process or procedure, no you fucking don't. It's officially Shut The Fuck Up Friday, every day.

Find which orgs in your area are doing the work on the ground to connect people to the care they need. If you need help, reach out. And if you can safely help them, consider doing so.

You're on the active lookout for misinformation now. If anything health-related seems too wild or too simple to be true, it gets a healthy dose of skepticism. Especially if it comes from an online source.

Take a moment. Take a deep breath. And then figure out what you can do now to prepare to keep yourself safe through the next few years. It's overwhelming out there this morning - please know that you matter. Tomorrow will come, every tide eventually turns, and you deserve to be alive and well when it does.

Love,

Your Canadian big sister

#reproductive rights #politics #signal boost this if you can

142 notes · View notes

five-thousand-loaves-of-bread · 5 months ago

Note

hi bread, I received an ask from someone who thinks that because they’ve been called the r slur for being autistic, that they can say it even though they’re not ID.

i am LSN autistic and don’t have ID so I answered the ask to the best of my ability but I don’t want to speak over anyone or accidentally spread untrue info. I know you don’t have ID, but I respect your posts and advocating for people with ID, so would you be okay with me sharing the post with you, and if you want you can provide your insight. you don’t have to at all, i just wanted to ask because I don’t want to misrepresent the issue.

thank you.

would prefer not be sent that post (upset me & often lead to harassment) but here some things can say or send:

this only post that can find right now that explain why not but there a lot just tumblr search system suck. if anyone have posts written by ppl w ID about why not that want share please feel free

some off top of head thoughts from listening to people w ID & in general disability/ID history:

(you = general you / people like person you talking about)

r slur come from old medical term for intellectual disability. “mental [version of r slur that end in -tion].” n version that end in -d shortened from it.

come from medical term for ID. not autism. not ADHD. not general any neurodivergence.

r slur & mental r word been used historically AND NOW to deny rights of people w ID. it been used for eugenics. think that word been watered down nowadays but by eugenics am meaning literal eugenic policies n direct actions. it been used for dehumanize people w ID, for deny rights n dignity, for deny education, for deny services n help, for forced sterilization, for involuntary institutionalized in abusive institutions with horrific abuse & neglect to point of barely alive or straight up death, for basically murder even.

in fact, word still in laws. many them old laws but still in affect n can be (& is) used any time to deny rights of people with ID.

while it really unfortunate n bad that be bullied n be called that word. as someone who been bullied with that slur, am sorry but that simply not on same level as this systemic level of abuse behind this word.

when be called r slur when not have ID, is comparing you to people with ID. is say you near/just as bad as them.

can’t reclaim something that never about you in first place.

especially when people most affected by slur (aka people with ID) want it disappear forever.

plus. many people without ID’s idea of “reclaim” that slur is just. use as insult. use as deprecation, use as self deprecation, use as poke fun of self. wow look am nearly as bad as people with ID.

while all not even bother learn what ID is n history behind people with ID n advocate for people with ID. (does person you talk about even know what it is. that it is intellectual functioning + adaptive functioning + symptom before technically 18 but usually before child. that it not same as dyslexia dyscalculia dysgraphia. do they say “intellectual disabilities” “an intellectual disability.” do they know what ID look like. do they know what severe profound ID look like. can they name one person with ID. just one. by name.)

disability’s not like gender sexuality. disability’s not like queerness. some experience may overlap but most things, can’t just copy paste because simply not same.

why you wanna say slur so bad. why you wanna collect slurs like it cool rocks so bad.

wow. you so cool n edgy n original (sarcasm)

if want able say & “reclaim” “fun” slur so bad. then also have hundreds (n thousands bc people with ID existed before it documented by modern western doctors) years of oppression & abuse & life lost that come with it. have the mistreatment n abuse that people with ID experience now—n. if that’s case. would be extremely lucky if even able make this far n be able to sit here use your communication privilege to talk about how want “reclaim” a fucking slur. because. did i mention people with ID are treated horribly.

denied education denied communication denied autonomy denied life changing therapies & help & aides. denied personhood.

still. today.

think that’s all

(tone = not mad at asker. just wish people dare think about anything other than themselves. just tired of this same old thing. am tired. my friends with ID double that. triple that. unspeakable amounts. but yeah am mad.)

#loaf screm #answered #r slur #ableism tw #slur discourse #long post #thank you for taking time learn n ask #ok to reblog

59 notes · View notes

joejhang · 29 days ago

Text

neil doesn't have a martyr complex

i'm back !!! with another essay about neil josten and how grossly mischaracterised he is by the fandom. i went into this a little bit in my previous essay but would u look at that i have more to say. what else is fucking new. anyway spoilers ahead continue at ur own risk.

a martyr complex is a recognised psychological pattern. it's marked by self-sacrifice and service to others at your own expense. signs of martyr complex include: always needing to be the hero, a lack of self-care, doing too much, having unrealistic values, and doing everything themselves.

above is the google definition of a martyr complex and signs and symptoms of it. i'm now gonna deep dive into why neil does not have a martyr complex and i actually think he doesn't even have sacrificial lamb tendencies like this fandom seems to think.

for the majority of the series, neil literally is the exact opposite of a martyr. i've said it already, but the whole premise of aftg is literally neil staying at psu despite the danger to himself and to others. he is fully and completely aware that him staying at psu and the foxhole court puts himself in the spotlight, allowing his father's people to find him more easily, and also puts all the foxes in danger simply by existing in proximity. he knows that no matter what he says, his father's people (by the time they catch up to him) will want to be 100% certain that no one knows about the butcher of baltimore and the sort of work he does, and they probably wouldn't just take neil's word for it. neil is super realistic and pragmatic and he probably knew that there was a high chance of some or all of the foxes getting killed by his father's people and because of him. despite that, he was willing to take the risk. was it selfish? yeah. and it's a big part of his character arc that he actually finds himself caring enough about the foxes to put himself in danger for them. nevertheless, neil does stay with the foxes out of courage and determination, but a good amount of selfishness also factored into that decision. and he knew it from the beginning. he knew that his actions had repercussions on the foxes, and he knew what sort of business he was dragging them into the whole time, and while he was sorry it fell back on them, he is never sorry for doing what he does (he literally says almost exactly that in canon). despite him saying he doesn't want to gamble with the foxes' lives at the end of tfc, literally everything he does in the next couple of books is a direct contradiction to that. most everything neil does is something of a calculated risk. sometimes it's not even calculated it's just instinctive. normalise having unreliable main characters who can be hypocritical sometimes.

his agreement to go to evermore over christmas wasn't an act of self-sacrifice or martyrdom. andrew likes to describe neil as a martyr but i think we as readers take that too much at face value. andrew says a lot of stuff about neil that we as readers can safely disregard. neil himself doesn't think he's that selfless and honestly i think he's right. his decision to go to evermore over the break was undoubtedly for andrew and to protect him, but i don't think that's really "self-sacrifice". he knew he was gonna have a terrible time but he also knew there was no way r*ko would kill him, not when they were in the messy middlegame of it all. nora specifically says that kevin notes how out of character it was for neil to throw away all of those carefully cultivated survival instincts and in-built fear like that, and he's right. it is out of character. it's a demonstration of neil's inherent desire to be a good person and also his strong moral compass and priorities. r*ko threatened andrew and told neil specifically what would happen to andrew if neil didn't go along, and neil's conscience wasn't gonna let him just walk away like that. especially bc he knew he'd make it out alive, there was really no reason neil would refuse. he was there to protect andrew the same way andrew is willing to protect all his loved ones. it wasn't an act of martyrdom, it was an act of, dare i say, love? kevin clocks neil's feelings specifically because of this decision, and i think it's critical to understand that he doesn't go to evermore out of a need to play the hero or some twisted desire to shoulder other people's burdens, he goes to evermore because he loves and cares about andrew, and also just because inherently there was no way he could sit idle while a threat like that was passed about someone he cared about so much (and also someone who'd protected him that much).

neil's character arc isn't about learning selflessness. this might honestly be a hot take, but i stand firm that neil's character arc is a lot more about courage and learning to care for people than it is self-sacrifice and selflessness. neil says "i realised i didn't want to be that person anymore, i want to go back for you". this isn't actually him saying: "i want to die for you, i would die for you, i would sacrifice myself for you" this is him saying: "i would willingly put myself in danger for you, and for me. i don't want to be someone who ducks and runs and. i don't want to be a coward anymore. i want to go back for you and fight for you because i care about you enough to." for someone who's spent his whole life leaving a bloody trail of bodies behind, this is a pretty reasonable assumption to make, that his arc would be learning how to let people in and learning to care about other people. does neil have a penchant for putting himself in danger willingly for other people? yeah. but let's go a little deeper into that; neil doesn't do it out of a desire to play the hero, a sense of self-service or a lack of self-worth or self-care. he does it because he cares about them. read the series back and realise neil isn't at all averse to being in dangerous situations or even getting into risky ones, but he is very averse to getting attached to and caring about other people. he was raised with a mentality of things being temporary, of cutting his losses and never trusting or caring about anyone except himself. aftg is about him unlearning that, learning to let people in, to trust and care about people, and his actions demonstrate that.

his decision to not run in baltimore was never about sacrificing himself. he was smart enough to know it was too late to run, and also the fact that running would be exactly the opposite of the person he's grown over the course of the series to become. he lets himself get kidnapped because he knows this was coming, and he cares about the foxes and knows they will come to less harm if he goes quietly (see above). his decision to let his father's people take him is very very in-character and it's also just completely reasonable. he knew this was coming and by then he knows that if he was ever gonna run he should've done it months earlier. he decided to stick around and knew this would be the consequences, and i honestly think he's come to terms with it by then. it wasn't a fleeting moment of sacrificing himself for other people, it was just him living out the consequences of his decisions. there was nothing for him to do; he's seen this coming already.

neil's sense of self worth is pretty strong. i already bitched about this to no end in my other essay so i won't go into it rn but just know: neil isn't the jittery, insecure and uncertain softboy the fandom makes him out to be. he's realistic and confident about his and other people's abilities and he harbours zero delusions about what he can and can't do. he also has no trouble standing up for himself. he specifically lets kevin and the cousins treat him like shit in the beginning of tfc bc he doesn't want them to know how much of an instigator he is and we all saw how well that went down. any time after that that anyone tries to have a go at him he literally just tears them a new one and knocks them down a peg and he does it with ease. neil is not a doormat he is not a pushover he doesn't need anyone's help protecting or standing up for him. fucking hell.

GO READ MY OTHER ESSAY ABOUT FANON VS CANON NEIL !!! https://www.tumblr.com/joejhang/765491788140167168/fanon-neil-vs-canon-neil?source=share

#zoe yaps #had more to yap about so here we are #GOD this fucking man #need everyone to understand him the way i understand him #aftg #all for the game #neil josten

35 notes · View notes

scekrex · 7 months ago

Note

Sinner Adam X Pastry Chef, Seraphim Male Reader.

Ok so Adam after the events of season one becomes a sinner.

But his boyfriend who sneaks out of heaven to find him and he does just that. And thankfully he did find him before he did something stupid.

Like going to the hotel he just attacked for protection from everyone who wants him dead. Who's inhabitants also want him dead.

But Reader knows he can't bring Adam up to heaven cause that goes against the rules. So he does the next best thing!

He opens a bakery in hell! Which doubles as a house. Don't question it, it's heavenly magic bullshit.

So now Him and Adam run a bakery with the help of Lute and a couple of exorcists who drop by from time to time.

Ohhhh I fucking love that, them just owning a little bakery in hell that's heaven themed and gives the vibes and is all beautiful. Also reader throwing away everything just to be with Adam? Me. I'd do that.

I'll meet you in hell

pairing: Adam x male!reader

warnings: language, mentions & symptoms of depression

note: not beta read bc fuck you I don't have beta readers

“We have to send our people down there and look for him,” you explained, hoping the other angels in the court would agree. Panic has flooded your eyes and your body language was a little too over the top because of that. Adam was down there, the projection of hell's current state had shown it, the first man was wandering through hell's streets, he was badly injured and had no shelter.

“No, we won't put our people at risk for a sinner,” Sera spoke highly, her chin tilted upwards so that she had to look down on you. “A sinner?” you asked, horrified by her choice of words - it's not that she wasn't wrong, Adam was walking through hell as a newborn sinner, “He’s still our first man!” But your statement was only met by shaking heads and mumbling that sounded a little too close to disagreement. With pleading eyes you looked up to Sera, Emily by her side. The little seraphim was talking to her sister quietly, so quiet that it was inaudible for you and the other angels in court.

“We have come to the decision,” Sera adjusted her posture as she turned towards you, “We can't risk the well-being of our people and therefore the well-being of heaven for the first man. He is not important enough to take that risk.” The panic that had been filling your eyes was replaced by pain and betrayal. The other seraphims had betrayed you, or at least it felt that way to you. With a lowered head you were about to get up and leave the courtroom, the verdict had been spoken and you had nothing to say that would change their mind. Discussing something like this with them was pointless, you should've known, saved time and went down without their knowledge of your location. You had to go down to hell and protect Adam - it wasn't as if the former angel was not able to stand up for himself - he every much was able to do so, you knew that better than anyone - but he was wounded and had no place to stay at, no one to turn to and the fact that probably every single resident of the pride ring wanted him dead was not helping either.

So you nodded your head towards your brothers and sisters, then turned to Lute - Lute who had been the only one to stay by your side. “We’re done here,” you stated as you watched the lieutenant lower her head as she followed you out of the courtroom. “Sir, excuse my curiosity but I assume you will not stay in your seat and wait, so may I ask what your plan is?” You liked Lute for many reasons, her loyalty for Adam was most definitely one of the highest attributes you admired. “I’ll go down myself and make sure he stays out of trouble as much as possible,” you explained, the lieutenant of your boyfriend remained by your side as you opened a portal to where Adam had last been spotted in hell, she was ready to go down with you. And while you normally wouldn't turn that offer down, this time you had to. Your visit in hell would be permanent - you were not going to leave the brunette to himself. “I’m coming with you, Sir,” the white haired woman said as she walked closer to the portal, yet she stopped when your hand gently came to rest on her shoulder. Your soft eyes met her determined ones and you offered her a warm yet genuine smile, “No Lute. Heaven needs you, I will take care of Adam, you will take care of heaven for me.”

The exorcist did not look very pleased with that decision of yours, still she gave you a nod and took a step back from you and the golden portal, “Very well, Sir.” With a little wave you turned around at her words, now facing the portal that would take you to your boyfriend and just as you were about to step through it, Lute raised her voice again, this time the usually so confident woman’s voice sounded somewhat unsteady, “Y/N?” You turned your head to Lute, then she continued, “Tell Adam I miss him.” And with those words she left. Ah yes, Lute always had trouble showing feelings and admitting them to somebody else than the person they were about surely must have been hard for her.

Hell was different than you had expected it to be, you had never personally been down there, why should you have been after all? Yet a creature as bright spirited as you was easy to spot - mainly due to your appearance. So when you turned around just to be tackled to the ground by a familiar first man, you were quite surprised and in shock at the same time, you had not expected Adam to spot you that quickly and act on it. “I fucking knew you would come to get my holy ass back into heaven,” the brunette mumbled as he pressed a kiss to your cheek. You held onto Adam’s body as you got up from the dirty ground - hell had a nasty vibe that you did not like but you’d have to get used to it. This place would now function as your new home due to Adam being not allowed to cross the pearly gates again. “Well, it’s not that easy love, I spoke to Sera-” Adam eagerly interrupted you, “I’m fucking sure she told you to get me in the first place, didn’t she? Yeah, she sure as fuck did.” Though when you shook your head in disagreement the prideful look in his eyes fell and disbelief replaced it. “What? You’re gonna fucking tell me these bitches want me to rot in this fucked up hellhole?” A simple nod was all you were able to give your boyfriend. Yes, that was exactly what Sera and the others had decided was the best solution for not only heaven but also Adam, but how could this be the best decision for Adam when he had been all alone the entire time and would have continued to stay alone if it weren’t for you disobeying the rules? Gently you cupped his face, a thing the first man had grown used to since that was something you did quite often - he still found it a little strange, it felt so intimate and personal while it appeared to be such a casual way of touching your lover. “The court has decided to not let you back in, Adam,” for Adam, this was the first time hearing your voice after his fall, after he had lost his status and home, after he had been convinced he had lost you as well. And despite your words being bad news, he could not help but find comfort in the sound of your voice. “But I won’t let you suffer here all on your own,” Adam’s eyes shimmered with hope and it felt painful to take that little bit of hope from him too, you knew he was hoping you were to smuggle him back into the heavenly realms - but that was a thing not even you as a seraphim could do.

“I’ll stay by your side,” and despite your thoughts that Adam would be highly disappointed, the hope in his eyes remained. You assumed that spending eternity in hell with his boyfriend sounded better to him than spending eternity in hell all on his own. “Well,” the brunette shrugged as he slowly pulled away from your touch, “That works fucking fine by me.” Not that it actually did though, the former angel would have preferred it if you would have taken his ass back to the pearly gates. But if the others were against it, you would make hell his new home instead, simply by spending all of eternity here with him just because you wanted to do so. He knew that if they hadn't done so already, they would properly ban you from the realm you had called home once forever, just like they had banned him. And he respected that - well, at least he thought he did because in his eyes that not only had the cute touch of ‘I throw my perfect life away to be with my loved one’, to Adam that also sounded incredibly stupid. Or at least he tried to tell himself that your decision was stupid - giving up everything to spend eternity with your loved one? Yeah totally not something he would do. Except that for you, he would throw it all away.

Getting used to hell’s atmosphere surely was not something that had ever been on your agenda, the air was stinky, the streets were dirty and the only area that felt clean and somewhat fresh was the area around the bakery you had built. The building was huge, shimmered in heaven’s brightest colors and you even managed to let some grass grow around the building that was not only used as a bakery, but it was also the new home of Adam and you. It had been quite some work - not because it was hard to work angelic magic in hell, no that had been the easy part. But due to this building doubling as a house and a bakery, it had taken some planning to not forget something important.

The bakery was not running very well, most sinners were not interested in heavenly food. The creatures down here looked up at heaven like the angels up there looked down at hell, in disgust and despair, not that you blamed them for doing so, they surely had their reasons to think that way. But you had two or three regulars that would stop by every other day and those people surely made your day, especially with one of them being Charlie Morningstar. Adam was not very happy whenever little miss butterflies and rainbows was visiting, but you and her got along quite well and your boyfriend at least tolerated that. And despite the bakery not earning very much money, the both of you had everything you needed, that was the bright side of not having to pay rent, you assumed.

Lute had convinced Sera to do regular check-ups on you, however she had only told the seraphim as an excuse to visit Adam. Don’t get her wrong, she was also glad to be able and pay you a visit, but her and Adam were closer than you and Lute could ever be and her missing her best friend more than his boyfriend was more than normal, not only in her eyes but also in yours. Sometimes she even talked Sera into taking one or two of the exorcists with her, to Sera she would say she takes them with her for defense reasons, in reality they just missed their former leader - and who could blame them? Lute surely did not.

You were standing behind the counter, the first man leaned against your side, wrapped up in your soft wings, his head on your shoulder as he was almost falling asleep. It was still early and Adam was convinced he would never get used to getting up so early in the morning, to him it felt like it was still the middle of the night. The little bell that rang as the door to the bakery opened made him crack one eye open and as he spotted a familiar face, he lifted his head off your shoulder, he remained wrapped in your wing though, not willing to leave the cozy warmth they provided.

“Danger Tits,” Adam beamed at the white haired woman as she entered the bright and heavenly feeling bakery. The vibe of the building you had created was different from the rest of hell, whenever Lute entered the inviting looking building she felt like you had brought a piece of heaven to hell. And while she still disliked Charlie’s idea of rehabilitation, she did like the fact that you made hell a little nicer - at least for Adam’s sake. That way she knew the first man was able to live a somewhat good afterlife, even with his soul stuck in hell.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel adam #adam x male reader #male reader #adam x y/n #adam x reader #adam x you

71 notes · View notes

catscidr · 10 months ago

Note

I think we have all seen the "Argenti thinks the Reader is Idrila" stuff on here. But what if the reader actually is Idrila? So I wanted to request Argenti/Idrila!Reader (gn or afab reader) headcanons or a oneshot where Idrila, who has taken on a mortal identity after [Insert tragic event here], and meets Argenti. They develop feelings for each other, Argenti finds out she is Idrila, they end up dating. (Maybe or maybe not in that specific order) I thought maybe after protecting her followers from Nanook she disappeared to ensure Nanook doesn't target them anymore? That part isn't as important so feel free to add whatever backstory you think fits^^ Thank you in advance, I really like your writing!

NONNIE omg im booting up star rail rn to stare at him lovingly. also i changed the scenario a smidge so reader is her own person while also being idrila? if that makes sense......?? yeah. also bc otherwise id be writing ten thousand words n i didnt want ur ask to grow dusty in my inbox d(;∀;d) but tysm for the prompt i couldn’t stop thinking about it ueue. also hey gang peep me trying to make my blog look more coherent n nicer looking. am i doin it ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: a smidge of amnesia and soulmate trope (it’s not that bad, trust), fluff, love at first sight (does that even count in this scenario....), argenti and reader are dancing around the topic a lot bc argenti is a gentleman and doesn’t want to pressure her to talk. blurbs to set up the plot + a fic after them hehe. not proofread, writer’s block is killing me includes: fem reader (he refers to reader as "my lady"), argenti, natasha, luocha is kinda there wc: 2,3k

-ˋˏ You’d go to Natasha’s clinic at least once every other day because you always had the worst migraines. To the point where you almost got beat up by a Flamespawn one time when you were clearing out calyxes (thankfully there was a Silvermane guard patrolling the area, otherwise you would’ve been charred). The doctor always says the same thing; “Stop looking for fights so often”, “Let your body rest”, “I can’t prescribe you antibiotics”, and your favorite, “Stop slamming my door open I can’t do anything about your headaches”. She was a good friend, but whenever she repeated how she couldn’t be of any help to your predicament, you’d wish you could just take that glass vial hanging from her outfit and chuck it far, far away out of spite.

-ˋˏ Obviously it wasn’t her fault- she'd done everything she could. Natasha even had you undergo the Underworld’s equivalent of an MRI scan because of how frequently you would visit her, insisting that something was wrong. The symptoms consisted of forgetting important things too often, feeling a foreign buzz in your limbs and brain, having a sudden burst of elemental energy come out of your attacks and a myriad of benign but annoying, irritating signs that something was up with you.

-ˋˏ It became more of a chore than anything to leave your room. Some days you felt fine, but then when you’d go out again and beat up wave after wave of enemies in Caverns of Corrosion you would keel over, clutching your head while vague images of what could only be described as a fever dream ran through your mind.

-ˋˏ You decided to leave the Underworld for some time- considering your absence like some sort of “vacation”. You heard of a wandering doctor (and merchant, apparently) by the name of Luocha and, from the people that crossed paths with him, it seemed like he was extraordinary at his job. A trek to the Xianzhou Luofu would be a long one, but after weighing your options you thought you’d give it a try (it was worth it if it meant you’d stop waking up at ungodly hours, holding your head in your hands while hoping, praying that the pain stops.)

-ˋˏ You (somehow) made your way to the Xianzhou Luofu from Jarilo-VI. As competent as you were however, being stranded on a foreign planet with no map nor local to guide you was... a challenge. In retrospect, maybe you should’ve gotten in contact with that Luocha doctor and had him come to Belobog instead of you going to him since, well, he was a traveling merchant. Going from planet to planet is what he does (you assume).

✧✧✧

If you had read up more on general information about the Luofu you would have been aware of how many enemies were roaming around the docking area. But you didn’t. So, unbeknownst to you, a rogue mara-struck soldier was on your tail, trying to sneak up to you to snag the goods you hid in your bag (which were basically just different types of painkillers and sustenance that bodes well on an upset stomach. He doesn’t know that though.)

Your head was throbbing; ever since you set foot on the planet, your physical health had slowly dropped down to levels you wouldn’t be enduring if it wasn’t for the promise of a competent doctor once you get to the main city. Painkillers weren’t working, your feet hurt and to make matters worse, you felt the familiar lack of something in your head. It was so bad to the point where you had to have a tangible mark somewhere to remind you that you did, in fact, just take something for your headache and if you took two more painkillers, your body wouldn’t agree with your decision. It was a struggle even remembering what you did five minutes ago, no way were you going to be in top shape, beating up every enemy crossing your way.

Clouds began covering the bright sun, casting shadows over the desolate, geometric area. You huff, irritated that, from the looks of it, you won’t be able to find a cozy place to set up camp. Though sleeping on a ground made of primarily iron and steel was considerably less nerve-wracking than sleeping on the mushy, cold, dirty ground of Jarilo-VI. So, with a pout aimed at no one in particular, you find some place that you deemed decent enough to set your humble tent. It wasn’t often that adventurers slept outside of safe zones, however with your condition you couldn’t afford to miss out on some rest and possibly get even more lost than you already are.

You set your heavy backpack down, rolling your shoulders to soothe the ache in your muscles from carrying something so bulky. As you ruffle through your belongings, you open a bottled soda and take a swift gulp, sighing contentedly at the pleasant taste on your tongue. Now that you were sat and could rest your bones (until you started setting up your tent, at least), your ears were able to pick up on some not-so-distant footsteps.

There’s no time for you to react; the mara-struck soldier that had been following you lunges at you, aiming for your bag. Your eyes widen and you open your mouth to yell, but before any sound can leave your mouth, a long, red and gold spear pierces the ground between you and the rabid man, making you yelp in surprise. You scurry as far back as you can in your current state; however, the soldier doesn’t have time to take advantage of your weakened stature. The owner of the spear lodges himself before your shaking figure and the mara-struck, yanking his spear out of the ground with impressive elegance, and summons an array of thorny vines to catch your assailant.

It takes little to no effort for the seasoned fighter to take down the mara-struck as he swings his weapon, swiftly knocking the blunt end on the soldier’s plexus, knocking the wind out of him. A strangled scream leaves his throat as he scampers away, leaving your belongings safe with you and the strange red-haired man. He lowers his spear, careful to keep the sharp edge far from you, and turns around to face you properly. His brows raise a smidge for a split second before he composes himself and bows before you, the action short and curt.

“It would have been a shame to lose a beauty such as yourself,” he says smoothly, straightening his back to look down at you with a warm smile. He stretches his hand out, a polite offer to help you stand up, as he continues speaking. “My name is Argenti, I belong to the Knights of Beauty. What might you be doing so far away from civilization, dear...?” he trails off, waiting for you to introduce yourself.

You were in a state of shock, your mind still processing what had happened in such a short amount of time, that you failed to notice the lack of pain at the back of your head. As you meekly tell him your name, you hold onto his hand to help yourself up- as soon as his armored glove comes in contact with your hand something flashes in your mind; too quick to allow you to think about it too much, or to recognize what you saw for a millisecond.

“So far away from civilization... do you know how to get to the city?” you ask as you feel a glimmer of hope spark in you. His words were refreshing, probably the best thing someone has ever said to you in the past month. He nods, reaching into his pocket to fish out a blue handkerchief embroidered with a delicate gold trim. Argenti hands it over to you and you gratefully take it, blotting the sweat and... dust off of your face.

“I have made my way around the Luofu for long enough to show someone the way,” he says kindly. “Besides, even if I didn’t, I would still offer to accompany you through your trek. It is my duty as a Knight of Beauty, for I must uphold chivalry and distinguished manners, in the name of the Goddess guiding me.” His words resonate within you, making you beam, nodding in understanding.

Your reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by the knight. As you hand his handkerchief back, he smiles at you and gestures to your bag. “What brings you so far from your homeworld, my lady?” Argenti asks gently, though a glimmer of doubt swirls in his sparkling, verdant eyes. The question makes you pause, a memory flashing in your mind too suddenly for you to know what it meant. Although, from what you could tell, you knew you could trust him with what troubled you somehow.

“Ah, it’s a long story,” you start sheepishly, “I’ve been having these incredibly painful migraines recently. And sometimes I feel like my memory is fading too quickly for what would be considered normal,” you say, trailing off slightly at the end. “I’m looking for a healer, a doctor by the name of Luocha...?”

Somehow, the doctor was currently the least of your worries. You’d never felt so refreshed before, at least not that you could remember; simply being in Argenti’s presence seemed to be enough to make your aches disappear like a starskiff smoothly gliding through a cloudless sky.

“I’ve seen the man only a handful of times,” Argenti mutters aloud, pulling you out of your thoughts. “I can do my best to guide you to him, but if I may... you don’t seem to be injured?” the knight says, his voice trailing off into a questioning tone despite the observation. You shake your head, wondering how you should explain your predicament to the man.

“Like I said, it’s a long story,” you say again, shrugging sheepishly. You wondered if you should even go into the nitty gritty- he could always just be making small talk to help you get comfortable or something. Sensing your unease, he changes the spotlight to him instead.

“There’s no need to delve into details if you wish to keep them secret,” he says with a kind smile, bending down to take ahold of your hand- gently pressing a chaste kiss on the back of your hand. Red flushes your ears immediately, words caught in your throat at the sight of his hair cascading over his shoulders, a beautiful contrast from the gold and silver armor glittering in what was left of the sunlight.

“As for myself, like I mentioned earlier, I am a Knight of Beauty. I’m on a quest to find my dear Goddess Idrila once more, for I need to pay my respects to them after they saved me from a particularly grim fate.” His words echoed in your mind, your brows knitting together as you felt what could only be described as a cold bucket of water being dunked on your head. “I-Idrila?” you parrot, your voice coming out as a choked noise. Argenti perks up, the hand that had been softly holding onto yours now holding it with a firmer grip, his other hand joining it.

“Yes, Idrila. Have you ever heard of them? Or...” he trails off, looking deep into your eyes expectantly, almost as if he knew something you didn’t. His eyes seemed to suck you in, bringing a comfortable wave of warmth over you, making you yearn for something.

“I...” you begin, your gaze falling down to look at your feet. As you thought long and hard about what you wanted to say, what you tried to remember, you slowly look over to his spear, lying flat on the ground- long forgotten since the fight earlier. As if a lightbulb went off above your head, you perk up just as he did, and look at him, beaming. The words were caught in your throat; there was so much you wanted to say, to declare, to do in this moment of clarity, but with how fast your mind was running to catch you up on the current events of your life it was a struggle.

“Argenti,” you murmur, the name rolling off your tongue smoothly, as you realized seeing the traveling merchant was no longer required. Though the road might have been arduous, and you may have almost lost your mind in the process, being with Argenti suddenly made everything make sense. That’s why your migraines mysteriously disappeared as soon as you were in the knight’s presence, that’s why you had gaps in your memory, that’s why you were freakishly powerful... at convenient times.

Everything clicked into place.

The both of you share a pregnant pause, eyes locked together as the world seemed to come to a stop around you. If it were possible, you’re sure there would be delicate, silky rose petals floating around your figures, suspended in the air. You glance down at his lips, and for the first time, make a decision with a clear head.

His lips felt smooth against yours, the faint taste of vanilla mixed with roses transferring to your own lips. The kiss almost felt like it could be the result of a symbiotic relationship; now that you had Argenti, or at least had him by your side once again, you didn’t think you’d be able to continue on without him.

#i may or may not have butchered the ending bc i DIDNT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THEM /SOBS #i did my best #୧ ‧₊˚orderup!#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #argenti x reader #argenti x fem reader #argenti x you #argenti x y/n

136 notes · View notes

mintacle · 1 year ago

Text

My hot take is that the same people who call Jason copaganda, pr-gunviolence or etc are from the same vein as people who blame schoolshootings on videogame violence, who blamed crime on Metal and satanism.

Instead of taking a critical look at a system within which a symptom of a problem is making itself known, you look if there is an outside influence, a kind of "virus" that you can blame for making it "sick".

DC comics are a little fucked up. That's the agreement you entered when reading them. All characters are inconsistent and sometimes in the wrong. Jason is a Bat, so at least it feels like he's maybe substantial enough to blame for the whole batclans issues, in a way that Helena Bertinelli (for example) can't be, because she is less closely tied and has less appearances. Congratulations, you have an identified patient! Jason is the problem that is rippling out and causing all these nasty and unsatisfied feelings the readers have about how crime is handled in these comics.

We see crime being fought in imperfect ways and our current cultural consciousness goes off with warning bells to identify the problem. But what you were taught was to identify what outside influence happens to be present and connecting the issue, and how to justify that all evil stems from this malignant influence. So surely if we could just remove this bad thing, we could go back to the wonderful world we knew where everything was ok.

That world never existed. The thing we are nostalgic for, is the world before we became aware of it's flaws. The problem has always been there, has always been an integrated part of this whole you used to love and admire.

But because the kind of people blaming Jason for "copaganda" do genuinely and truly come from a good place of wanting social justice (I'm saying you are good people. I disagree and think you are making a logical error, but we do care about and want the same thing. Good People) because you come here with the right intentions, you use the buzzwords of copaganda. Or gunviolence. You know from what you have heard that the issue is systematic, but you are struggling to find what that system equivalent is in DC comics. You are falling victim to the fallacy of assuming a main narrative perspective. Just as irl cops are hard to identify as the problem bc you might have to first struggle through the cognitive dissonance that your old worldview of good cops was wrong (so so wrong), you experience cognitive dissonance if trying to read comics with someone like Batman being wrong and flawed.

Looking beyond any superficial similarities to cops Jason is called out for (uses a gun, kills, enforcing his vision of justice) he really doesn't have much more similarities. He isn't a figure of authority, he lacks the nigh god-given justification to do whatever he wants whatever the outcome and is questioned at every turn. Just the sheer instances of Batman or another Bat showing up to beat Jason up and lecture him on what he does.

Extending this, he does not have the pervasive and persuasive power to shape a narrative. Jason's narrative is so far out of his hands. Which has been a core truth about him since for ever. From his maleable origin story, to his death, the years of him being gone and having No Voice Whatsoever, his resurrection in utrh showing him trying, struggling to have a voice against Bruce's story and being drowned out and denied his perspective, the inconsistency of his character after, each writer trying to shape him into something. Now cops fucking have a narrative. Their narrative is the main one we are fed. Their violence is structured and oppressive. Jason is neither a structural systemic power, nor is he oppressive of anyone. If you disagree with his violence for the sake of the moral highground of condemning killing.... Then, just, there are other media, you know.

Cop violence is systemic violence. It is violence that is "justified" to the extent it requires no justification. It is above being questioned. I am genuinely willing to hear an argument how Jason is cop-coded. But to me he is the punk resistance based "violence" that is only organized in the anarchical but organical sense of caring to protect the community that surrounds you. He doesn't approach Gotham as a paternalistic force of protection shielding it from above, but as one of them from within, showing up for the people who are suffering the way he has suffered too.

#rambling #this got way too long and inceherent #man I'm just talking #jason todd

270 notes · View notes

jaggedamethyst · 8 days ago

Text

trying...

pairing: bucky x reader (non gender specified)

content: bucky is dealing with trauma as a result of his time as the winter soldier, you accidentally get caught in the crossfire. (references to physical harm, mentions of violence, inferred ptsd symptoms and trauma, etc). also slight stucky if you squint bc i know theres fans out there.

notes: ive thought about trying to put this into words for so long, i hope it translates well. i may do a part two if the people want it. pls read the content warning above and steer away if this may trigger you.

word count: 1.8k

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

In recovering from the absolute torture that was Bucky’s life the last few years—there were few moments of solace. The worst being the slight feeling of peace before all of his progress abruptly drained back to zero… before he’d been reminded of a trigger.

Something would suddenly pop into his brain—betraying him—and he’d be forced to physically and metaphorically swat the idea away. The problem, though, was that this soldier was doing what any good one does, fighting. James Buchanan Barnes knew what it was to be a good man, a good soldier. But the Winter was more formidable than ever.

Whenever the opportunity presented itself, the assassin had to make an attempt at clawing its way out.

The attempts weren’t infrequent.

Bucky would sit by the window, unable to sleep. He would often be forced to watch the sunrise. Daybreak. He’d long committed the color of the sun meeting the skyline to his memory and with it the unfortunate feeling of his companion wanting to make an appearance.

Whenever he’d volunteer to build something. The screws, bolts, and nails would be shiny enough to reflect Bucky’s face back to him. An image he’d hate to observe, of course. All he could see in them was potential, though. Positive connotations escaped him in this instance because all he could see was an opportunity for destruction…natural wear and tear…oxidation. Like him, these pieces of metal existing just meant that there was a chance to become worn. To decay. To become something bad…rusted.

Numbers were the hardest to avoid and he realized just how often something can torment you when it becomes a thing you hate. One, nine, seventeen. Nine, seventeen, one. Seventeen, one, nine. In any order or occurrence these numbers seemed to follow him as close as his shadow—if not more so. He’d become particularly hateful towards one. The casual “one second,” “one moment,” and “I’ll call you back in one minute” seemed to linger in his brain for far too long.

Freight car. Attempts to get out more proved futile. No matter how far he tried to get away, the sound of rumbling would fill his ears. He knew the sound too well. Bucky knew the feeling of air leaving your lungs. He’d grown accustomed to the feeling of falling. He felt it every day.

The thing about falling is that when it occurs for long enough it almost feels normal. That slight weightless feeling and euphoria tricked Bucky the first time it happened. That was until he hit the ground. In experiencing one or more of his triggers every day, the feeling of weightlessness returned—so consistent that in a weird way, Bucky felt as if he’d won. He could no longer be shocked by the initial stomach drop if he continued to propel towards something nonexistent. He could no longer be surprised by the euphoria if the impact never came…if he never hit the ground. To him, if it happened so frequently that you were no longer taken aback, you’d beaten your triggers right?

He couldn’t be more wrong. He was terribly so.

If there was one thing Bucky learned and ignored in his various therapy sessions is that acting like something isn’t there is not…ideal. Having this being claw and tear at him left him with metaphorical lesions that he wasn’t tending to. People tried. There was never an interaction for which Steve wasn’t looking at his best friend with longing. Longing for the stoic and confident man he once knew. This person was a shell. Even with all the progress, he would never forget the one person he had left seeing him as nothing more than a mission. One only wonders how he’d feel to know that Bucky sees every day as one, a mission, an attempt to not crash the fuck out. (That was something new he learned, suited him for sure).

Again, people tried. Without even realizing it, you tried.

The day you met Bucky, he just seemed grumpy to you. “Valid,” you’d thought with a shrug. There wasn’t really much to not be grumpy about these days. Yet, you flashed him a smile that warmed his insides—and not in the usual evil entity trying to escape way.

In the darkest of days inside his mind, he found something to aspire towards just knowing you walked this planet.

You’d known each other for a while before it became anything serious; he was reasonably weary of getting close to anyone for fear of dragging them down with him. But, he promised he’d never hurt you—every time he uttered the phrase in passing you shrugged him off, reassuring him that you knew.

“James, we both know you wouldn’t hurt a bee—“ you stopped to point to him, his brow arched as you knew it’d be. “And I know that's not the phrase, okay! You’re an old man and you know all the platitudes.”

Bucky stood to meet you in the center of your shared apartment, “what does that have to do with you saying the phrase wrong?”

“My point,” you said, tapping his nose for emphasis, “is as I said.” You snaked your arms around him, “you wouldn’t hurt a bee.” You locked eyes with him, “because even if a bee was attacking you, swarming all around you, and wanting to hurt you…you still wouldn’t hurt it. You wouldn’t swat your hand or anything. Some may say that's just stupid…but I think it pretty much sums up the person you are. I know that. You know that.”

You pecked his lips and walked away.

Bucky was left speechless and almost teary-eyed by your analogy. But that was you, trying…without trying. He owed it to you to try, too.

The thing about that is, there was still so much for him to uncover. He had fallen for so long, he knew that. He’d been traumatized for so long without saying anything.

He had nightmares that only went away when he stopped sleeping altogether. It had been so long since he truly rested that he let himself forget about that inconvenience.

Tonight, he decided, was the night he would face his fears by being well-rested to take on the next day. He mumbled to himself, “One day at a time, right?” He slipped into bed with an excitement he hadn’t really expected. It wasn’t long before sleep overtook him.

_______________________

He woke suddenly to screams. A woman? The high-pitched and erratic yells made his head hurt worse than he’d ever experienced.

“What the hell is happening?”

He turned in bed to see you not there, which immediately made him spring into action. Calling your name and getting no response anywhere in the apartment was enough to make him want to cry. But the screams. They were coming from outside, not in.

He looked out the window to see if he could see what was going on and oh my gosh.

With no shoes, he ran. He felt as if the stairway was endless. The pain of the asphalt was nothing in comparison to the pit in his stomach as he ran directly towards it. Towards your car wrecked. Completely wrapped around a tree. How could this happen? The one time he’d gone to sleep.

Nobody was helping you. Your car literally sitting with you inside motionless. There was no time to think, he ripped the door off. He reached for you, pulling you from the car. He knew CPR but everything was escaping him, it seemed.

He pleaded and yelled for someone to help, realizing that your body was much more limp and cold than ideal right now. He repeated “no” more times than he’d ever in his life. He clung to you, squeezing you, praying for a miracle. But there was nobody. He clawed at anything; your clothes quickly became battered. He was so confused. His head met your chest, his attempt at trying to wish you back to life. Back to him. But the look in your eyes was so—wait. Not your eyes…

The “no, no, no” repeated again, without him even trying. He felt a scratching at him. A darkness enveloped him and his surroundings and his hand…

His hand was on someone's neck. No. A man.

He remembered this. His body working against itself to execute orders. His mind fighting within its own skull to erase the memories of James.

James

It repeated faintly in his mind, and yet as much as he grasped for it he couldn’t seem to reach it.

James

It was getting lower. He tried, he was trying. He felt it pounding at him. Suddenly, that familiar jolt. But rather than an electric current pulsing through his body in an attempt to disconnect him from reality, he’d finally have to face this one.

He was sleeping. No, he was dreaming. The voice inside his head, you, calling to him in a plea to stop. The James that would never hurt a bee, had hurt you.

He fell back quickly, feeling himself glossed over in sweat. He looked to you, speechless, bruises already forming on your arms. He clung to you, squeezing you.

Bucky sobbed immediately, reaching to console you. You moved back before even processing it. The flash of hurt in his eyes moved you, but your fear kept you at a distance.

“Did I,” he mumbled, “did I ch-“ he couldn’t get the word out.

You shook silently, eyes shifting to the bedpost that was now clearly disfigured…a set of fingers printed along it. His hands on someone's neck.

You were lucky, a split second and some scratching and you were able to get some distance between you. Even there, you didn’t feel settled. You witnessed your boyfriend, grasp what could’ve very easily been your neck and squeeze with an ease so unsettling that you had no choice but to try and stop him. Despite all the advice you heard to never wake someone this way, you knew he’d been hurting. You hit him, as hard as you could. He tried, he was trying. He felt it pounding at him.

“I am,” the man inhaled, “more sorry than I can ever begin to express to you. I don’t know what happened.” You observed him slowly rise to his feet, clearly drained. “I made you a promise. Who am I… if I can’t let that be true?”

Bucky moved silently and quickly, ignoring your voice calling out to him. Even in shock, you were trying. You tried.

Within minutes some people you recognized started to look you over—empathy in their eyes. You drowned out their medical talk, looking for Bucky, noticing he slipped out without a word.

People tried. He tried. But the scars of the Winter Soldier had become so big that they’d inadvertently grown. Like roots—weeds—they festered and spread to the ones he loved.

He didn’t know what to say to you, or if he could ever be with you ever again. But he watched from a distance, observing you be tended to like a fresh garden. The weeds seemed to dwindle. While still there, he knew that at the very least—he wasn’t contributing to your stunt growth. Without him, you could blossom into so much more.

(ps. sorry about the emotional scarring 💀)

- amethyst 💟

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #marvel #marvel mcu #angst #winter soldier #winter solider x reader #winter soldier x you #jaggedamethyst

39 notes · View notes

aspd-culture · 2 months ago

Note

sometimes i feel like how i am just makes more sense. how do you think the world would be different if everyone "had aspd" (but in this world, it would just be being normal)?

Hmmmm.... Damn I'm really unmasked right now so this is probably the most honest answer I could give you (based on my opinion of course, none of this is fact and for all intents and purposes this answer is entertainment value only not educational bc who knows if I'll agree with myself once we find wherever that mask is hiding).

First and foremost, society is kind of gone in this case. Or reverted, I guess. That's a major point with ASPD is that we didn't develop the way everyone else did to be a part of society, desire to be around people, fear people disliking us (because in the wild that could mean dy*ng), etc. We still have the understanding of the need to congregate and therefore would likely still have settlements nearby, but I'm guessing everything would be a lot more spread out. I'm sure there are plenty of pwASPD who don't feel this way, but all the pwASPD I know personally hate the concept of neighbors that can perceive them while standing in their own yard or worse their own house. So firstly I think that houses would likely be further away, and that things like trailer parks and apartments would be significantly less common.

I also think that laws surrounding where you can build a house and the safety stuff involved like permits would be more lax - leaning towards a "if you didn't do it right, you'll be the one to have to deal with it" mentality, and in that I think more people would be housed but probably significantly less safely. I don't think this would extend to things like basic building stability and electricity and such, because that would cause issues for more than just the idiot who didn't do their research, but for things like lead paint, proper insulation, and such like that.

In general, probably a lot of things would lean that way - with more overall protections for people because we A.) don't like to hear people complain and will sooner do the right thing to shut them up than continue to allow their whining in a lot of cases and B.) we understand that the entire purpose of humans living near each other is to help and C.) in a world where ASPD was the norm we know that if I (general I) don't help you (general you) when you need it, there will be no empathy or anything making them feel bad if you don't help when *I* need it. Everyone takes what they need and gives what they need and I doubt people would bother to abuse the system because we are smart enough to know that gaming the system is actually screwing all of us over bc now when people need help that isn't there, they will have no qualms about coming to the house of the person who stole all the resources for themself and asking what that person intends to do to fix the problem they made.

See, a lot of the reason that pwASPD who manage to go on to be your high-profile wealthy CEOs do that is because it's easier for them than a prosocial. Stepping on people to get to the top, knowing that those people will likely barely see it as you doing something wrong. They feel for you and they understand you were taught greed and all that, so they're easy to manipulate. Give them a bonus check that doesn't even bother a percentage of your profits every year around the holidays and you're considered a great boss doing better than most. Let them call out every once in a while and only give them a little heat about it and they'll worship you because it's better than most of what's out there.

But other pwASPD see through that, so I don't think hyper-selfish people with ASPD would manage to thrive in this type of "society" the way they do with a majority prosocial one.

I think that we'd also help to establish better things for people with ASPD - more stuff like wreck rooms and such - that allow for the easing of those symptoms without breaking your sh*t or hurting anyone, while also getting rid of laws that are, well, stupid in our eyes and help decrease the annoyance that causes our symptoms to flare in the first place. You're stealing baby formula? Go at it. I don't care. If we notice because you're stealing a bunch of shit then you did a shit job of stealing and then there's probably consequences. Maybe. If the dude on shift feels like dealing with it.

I think only the big things would continue being illegal by any degree, and I think the system would probably be much more collective rather than things like managers, politicians, etc. We're not a fan of people telling us what to do more often than not, so I think all of us having a turn would be the way it would work. I think most everything would go to majority vote.

I honestly wonder if money would even survive in a world entirely set up by pwASPD or if we'd just make all the transactions by association like the old barter system. People say that the reason we can't go back to that in today's world is because we wouldn't be able to decide what services were worth what other services but that kind of removes the point of the barter system in the first place. It's not about the services having a "value" it's literally just about "I need this and you have it, you need that and I have it, let's trade". This is already how we view our relationships - not caring if the give and take is equal as long as we both are walking away cool with it - so it makes sense we'd extend that to a general rule.

In a weird way I just feel like we'd be less connected but more collaborative. No I don't want to have small talk but I do have bread I'm willing to give to someone who can get me antibiotics. And no one would take offense to that because *none* of us want to do the small talk.

Plenty of pwASPD do enjoy friendships and relationships and so I think in those cases, you'd see people who want that finding that and people who don't just not participating.

I don't think everything would change, because to a degree there is some ASPD influence in how things work atm, but it's a prosocial lens on it even for the things that have that influence.

There is also the solid possibility that it could just be anarchy tho :/ It depends because honestly all of this is coming from the place of "us all developing ASPD knowing what the world is like now and what isn't working" but if it wasn't like that who really knows what would happen. (apparently my use of emoji means that sentence has to be in bold on this font)

I refuse to re-read and edit this rn and I won't want to do it later so RIP if this is a mess of a post to read or contradicts itself, etc. But I promise I do care about this blog and the content on it/gen - the reason why I'm being selective about which asks I'm willing to do while in this state - I'm just impaired by the low mood stabilizer levels so I'm honestly worse than just unmasked rn. Like me normally without a mask and without any mood stabilizer at all is more composed and gives more of an f then I do rn but god guys Lamictal withdrawal will kick your *ss. Idk why I'm explaining this like I would to a group of prosocials tho XD I more often get questions on this blog about why I *don't* act like this.

Plain text below the cut:

But other pwASPD see through that, so I don't think hyper-selfish people with ASPD would manage to thrive in this type of "society" the way they do with a majority prosocial one.

Plenty of pwASPD do enjoy friendships and relationships and so I think in those cases, you'd see people who want that finding that and people who don't just not participating.

I don't think everything would change, because to a degree there is some ASPD influence in how things work atm, but it's a prosocial lens on it even for the things that have that influence.

#I vote we start tagging people who come in asking how I can be like I usually am if I actually have ASPD in the stuff I posted today/j #aspd-culture-is #aspd culture is #aspd culture #actually aspd #aspd #aspd awareness #actually antisocial #antisocial personality disorder #aspd traits #anons welcome #a rare unmasked aspd culture

35 notes · View notes