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ooffmlsorry · 3 days ago

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Please Stay

Law x f!reader// hurt?/comfort

Summary: If Law doesn't tell you how he feels, he'll lose you forever...

A/N: this has been plaguing me for days. I wrote half of this in a trance at work for christ's sake! This might have a part two. Takes place at the end of Wano even if I haven't gotten there yet, I'm kind of extrapolating. Reader has a DF kind of like Mantis from Guardians of the Galaxy

"You're not a Heart Pirate!?"

You blink once. Twice. "Uhh...no. I'm just kind of here actually...." You pick at your skin a little to avoid Nami and Robin's shocked gaze. "I met Law on Punk Hazard same as you guys."

"I'm going to miss you soooo much!!" Ikakku draped herself over you dramatically. "I want another girl on the crew!" She whined. "It's miserable with just guys!"

"I thought you guys had a thing going on?" Nami asked.

Hiyori nodded. "I mistakenly thought your closeness to him was romantic in nature as well."

Law was outside listening. He only stopped because he heard his name...coming from your mouth, specifically. He wasn't even going to try to fool himself into believing it was because you were obviously talking about him to the Straw Hats. This wasn't a strategic trade of information--not really. This was "girl talk," and like a pathetic teenage boy skulking around outside the girl's locker room, he wanted to know what you were going to say.

You laughed loudly. Shocked. "Oh god, no!" Whatever is there (soon to be was there) didn't have a name, and you weren't going to be the one to give it one. When you make a wish you tell no one.

Outside Law's hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles turned white between the ink. Oh god, no!? Why the hell not!? He should've left then, but he couldn't make himself leave. How much more time would have to hear your voice? Even if what you said hurt. Maybe it would make it easier to leave you.

Ikkaku shook her head and grinned. "Exactly! My captain's not like that, although..." She paused to think. "He does touch you a lot--"

"Every time you two have had to run somewhere, he grabs your hand!" Nami interjected. "At first I thought you were like Zoro and got lost easily but you're fine! He's just always on you!"

Law hated that Nami was right and that it was so obvious even a Straw Hat (albeit a smarter one) had noticed. When did he allow this? Had the two of you always been this way? He could trace your touch all the back to the day he met you on Punk Hazard. Small contacts of skin as he nursed you back to health. That felt like a lifetime ago.

"Not to mention, you work quite well together. You were able to work with us on his behalf while he went to save his crew members in Rasetsu," Robin said. "That's why we're confused."

"Wow! I didn't know that!" Ikkaku said.

They all were silent, staring at each other.

"So there's truly nothing going on between you and Law?" Hiyori asked.

"Absolutely not!" You said definitively. "Law and I are just...existing in the same space and time....together."

Robin chuckled. "How poetic."

Nami snorted. "So if Law kissed a woman in front of you right now, you wouldn't be jealous?"

"I don't see him doing that," you said in a neutral tone.

"Because you'd be blind with rage?" Ikkaku giggled.

Law frowned so deeply it hurt his face because he knew if someone asked the same question of you, he would be livid. Was he really like a territorial dog over a bone...a "bone" that wasn't even his.

"Because he wouldn't do that." Honestly, you had thought of it before, there were definitely women in Wano that had made eyes at him and..."That would be his right," you said contemplatively.

"I can't make him do anything." You hate how suddenly sad you sound. "I can't make him ask me to join the crew. I can't make him take my advice or listen to me. He does what he wants. What does he need me for?"

"Then you won't be going with him either," Robin said in that thoughtful way you've known her to speak sometimes. Not quite a question, but still a statement--ipso facto.

Your chest tightens. The food you just gorged yourself on sits unpleasantly in your stomach. "No," you said quietly.

Way to bring the fucking mood down, Y/N.

Law's chest ached sharply, an incision pain. That's what it felt like. You weren't going with him. It was as sure as history set into the stone of a poneglyph. Your paths diverged here.

"Did you ask him?"

Your mouth tasted sour and your words came out bitterly. "I'm not doing that." You tried to lighten the mood. You sighed deeply and stretched. "Some things end before they start or they just end, you know? But I've had a lot of fun!"

The truth of the matter was you didn't know if whatever you and Law had going on was strong enough to make out to sea. He found you on the brink of death on Punk Hazard thanks to Cesear's gas. Sitting by a fire in Wano, his hands where they shouldn't have been, your heart fluttering against his ear, he told you saving your life was supposed to be his last good deed.

At the time his confession buoyed you, he was supposed to leave you on Punk Hazard, but then there were the Straw Hats, and Cesear's experiments, and Dressrosa, and Corazon, and Zuo, and Wano, and against all odds, you were still with him. But maybe, he was just telling you you weren't supposed to make it this far in the first place. Your train has arrived at a station, it's time to get off.

The somber mood held on regardless, maybe because Robin wouldn't let it go. It's not like she's some kind of hopeless romantic. Did she want you to cry in front of everyone? Why was the woman you idolized so much still talking? "You have feelings for him," she said. This was decidedly not a question.

If someone had asked ten minutes early, there would have been squeals and pokes and giggles. You would've flushed, your stomach filled with butterflies. Acknowledging your feelings for Law now just felt cruel.

Law kept listening. His ears strained like his life depended on hearing what you said. It shouldn't matter what you say.

"I could fill an ocean with all the things I feel for him, that doesn't mean anything. He's his own person too," you said. Your voice was getting swallowed up by a lump.

It didn't mean he wanted you too. It didn't mean you were sure this would work and he was too. It didn't mean he wouldn't start to control you, that you wouldn't start to resent him. All it meant was that right now, you're staring down the barrel of leaving him and you didn't want to. All it meant was sometimes it felt like your heart beat solely for him.

Law listened to you speak with such sadness, like you were talking at someone's funeral. Eulogizing. Why weren't your feelings enough to propel you to talk to him? Because he's his own person? When has that ever mattered to anyone? Corazon forced him to live. Why couldn't you force him to love you?

He let out a tight shuddering breath. He already knew the answer: because that's not who you are. You try not to treat him like precious glass. He's told you not to, and you try, but it never lasts long. If he had met you at any other time he would've hated the way you are with him, so gentle and easily fooled by his walls and masks. But after Dressrosa...he needed you. When he pushed you away, you left without an argument, quieted yourself around him until he was ready. And when you did come, you came with things he needed and didn't ask anything else of him.

Whether by Haki or your Devil Fruit, you could feel Law's presence now. He was right outside the door listening. You could feel him yearning, it wrapped around you like a thick sent, lassoing you like prey.

You stood suddenly. "I need air," you said. "And when I come back we're talking about something else. Anything else! Please! I hate sappy goodbyes."

Law couldn't help scoffing. It was only a matter of time before you noticed him. Maybe you had the whole time and spoke because you knew he was listening.

You closed the door behind you to find Law standing there like you knew he would be. Being face-to-face with him was...hard. For having won against Kaido and Big Mom he looked so sad...which was your fault.

"You shouldn't eavesdrop if you don't want your feelings hurt," you said. Why even try to be mean with him, you know you can't.

Law just looks at you in the way he knows you hate. He knows without your Observation Haki or your Devil Fruit you'd be lost to reading him.

Sadness is clear. Longing. Anxiety. Desperation. Admiration.

"You're reading me," Law said finally. "Stop it."

"If you don't talk you know I won't understand," you said. "It's all best guesses and instincts anyway, especially without touching you."

Law wasn't listening anymore, he was looking at the door behind you. Where the other ladies were definitely listening. Even Robin probably was, even if she smiled and claimed innocence later. "I'm not talking here," Law said.

You couldn't help smiling to yourself, private as always. It was awkward to step into Law's arms again, he didn't wrap his arm around anyone else he Shambles away with. Only you. And you were both painfully aware of the press of each other's bodies no matter how loosely Law tried to hold you.

You had no idea what you were doing to him, leaving the ball in his court. So that was it, then? He either flayed himself to the bone or he would never see you again. But no worries, don't rush. He scoffed and looked away from you.

You were spirited away somewhere private, the lights of town at a bit of a distance. Bugs hummed loudly out here.

You don't need your Devil Fruit to feel how charged the air is with Law's emotions. Desperation and anguish were so loud it screamed. Law's eyes bore into your back.

You felt nauseous, both from teleporting and the conversation you were about to have. "You heard my side," your mouth is so dry your lips click as you speak. "Your turn. I won't rush you, though."

His heart pounded.

Just say something!

"You want me to do more than tell you to stay," Law said. His voice shook, it was degrading and embarrassing. "I can't do that...I can't promise anything."

You sighed. The lump in your throat grew larger, "I know. That's why I won't ask."

Damn you, Law wanted to say. He wanted you to be selfish enough to want him but never selfish enough to leave him. He was pathetic.

"Stay...stay anyway, Y/N," Law said. "Come with me."

You've woven yourself into his new existence beyond his past. You've become a part of his life. It feels like his DNA has changed and you're a part of it now. And he's too much of a coward to learn how to fill it with something else.

He took a deep breath and tried to force out the words you needed to hear. The words he wanted to give you. "Please come with me. I don't want..." I don't want to lose you. "I don't..." I don't want to leave without you. The words kept getting stuck. "Don't..." Don't go. Law clenched his fist and growled in frustration.

You stopped Law's struggling, pulled him into your arms. "That's close enough. Thank you," you said quietly, gently. You ease your arms over the tense muscles under his skin. He was cool to the touch from the sweat clinging to him.

The relief settling over his body bleeds into yours and you feel everything Law's keeping inside of him. You felt something new swirling in there with everything else since the last time you touched his skin. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, so you weren't either, but he was afraid it was beginning to be love. You can feel it through the contact of his skin. Something like love.

"Come with me, Y/N," Law said quietly into the top of your head.

You pulled back to look at him. "You want me to join your crew?"

"I...I want you to come with me," Law's cheeks flushed heavily and his eyes moved away from yours. Joining his crew and coming with him were two different things to Law, a delineation he was making right now.

"Oh... you mean as something you can't leave behind," you said. Your face felt warm. You could practically hear Penguin and Shachi in your head: "We don't care if the Captain brings his girl on board!" "Anything to keep him in a good mood and off our asses!"

"Yes..." Law spoke tentatively. "As something I can't leave behind."

You exhale deeply and swallow, you're careful not to push your anxiety into Law. He was battling his own already. "So we're seeing where this goes....Okay."

I think it'll kill me if I don't, Law thought.

You looked into Law's eyes. The mask was cracked, you could see the fear in his eyes and feel it too. But he was trying to look resolute for whatever reason (bless his heart!). His jaw was clenched, eyes almost defiant in an attempt to hide how absolutely terrified he was.

You could feel him gearing up for something but you had no idea what. Like he was bracing himself. You stare up into his handsome face, a hand cups the side of his face and you smile. "What's going on in there?" You spoke like you were talking to a spooked animal.

Law deflated slightly with an exhale, expression grim. He pressed his forehead to yours. "Nothing. I'm happy you said you would come with me," he said.

"I'm happy too, Law" you whispered back.

You were going with him. He could work up the nerve to kiss you later...even if it took another five months.

#yeah if it wasn't clear that end bit is Law being too chicken to kiss the reader #and the reader doesn't realize that's what's happening #anyway this was fun #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #one piece x reader #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgar law x you

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whatdoyouwanttocallmefor · 2 days ago

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Can you make a long version of 'dangerous charmer'?

ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴄ��ᴀʀᴍᴇʀ - ʜᴀɴ ᴊɪꜱᴜɴɢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Helloo!!!! Im so sorry it take a very long time :(( I swear I already write it but I kept changing because I just have problem with my brain and I just feel the story is not good? I still feel it's not good but umm maybe it can be considered? please :(( Anyways, here's a long version of Dangerous Charmer. Enjoy

Warning: Contains themes of possessiveness, violence, and mafia-related content

---

Han Jisung was a mastermind.

Not just clever. Not just strategic.

No, he was terrifyingly brilliant, the kind of man who could dismantle an empire with a smile and a soft “Oops.” In the underworld, people spoke of him in whispers, like saying his name too loud would summon him. And if he did appear? You didn’t live to tell the tale.

To the world, Han Jisung was a ghost in designer suits, a storm in Gucci sunglasses.

But to you?

He was the man who bought three different types of milk because he could never remember which one you liked. The man who quietly learned to braid hair just so he could help when you had a bad wrist day. The man who didn’t sleep unless your side of the bed was warm.

He was chaos outside. But with you? He was comfort.

You were brushing your teeth one morning, still groggy and half-aware, when you noticed something on the mirror. A sticky note.

“You mumble in your sleep. It’s cute. I love you. - J 🖤

You laughed, toothpaste foam nearly spilling out. “This idiot,” you murmured, your heart fluttering.

He left notes like that sometimes. Sometimes they were sweet. Sometimes utterly dumb.

“You looked hot kicking me in your sleep last night.” “Bought you four cupcakes. Ate two. You’ll survive.” “I bribed the bakery lady to give you the warm pastries. Don’t ask.”

You swore he had the soul of a menace and the heart of a poet.

Later that day, Jisung slid an envelope across the kitchen counter, looking way too smug for a man wearing Hello Kitty slippers.

“Here,” he said.

You paused mid-sip of your coffee, eyeing the envelope like it was a trap. “What is it this time?”

“A gift.” He leaned forward, propping his chin in his hand like he already knew you were going to freak out.

You tore it open and froze. “This… this is a black card, Jisung.��

“Yup.”

You nearly choked. “This is... do you know how much money is on this?”

He grinned. “It’s infinite. Just like my love for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s so corny.”

“Corny and loaded,” he quipped. “Now take it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not a kept woman, Jisung.”

He laughed. “You are kept. Just… also deeply loved and dangerously spoiled.”

You softened, biting your lip. “I don’t need money to feel loved.”

He walked around the counter, gently cupping your cheeks. “I know. That’s what makes you different. But I want to give you everything. Because this world is brutal. And money? It’s my sword. My shield. My power. And if it can make your life even one ounce safer or easier, then you’re going to take the damn card.”

You stared up at him, heart twisting. He wasn’t giving you a luxury. He was giving you protection in the only language his world understood.

“…Fine,” you whispered.

“Atta girl.” He kissed your forehead. “Go buy yourself a tank. Or ten cats. Or a tiny island. Surprise me.”

---

But Jisung didn’t protect you with money alone.

There was a night, cold and too quiet, when everything changed.

You’d gone out alone for five minutes. Five. You wanted to grab a snack from the corner store, thinking no one would notice. Jisung had been in a meeting, and you didn’t want to bother him.

Big mistake.

Someone followed you out.

You didn’t notice until a hand brushed your wrist. “Hey—got a second?”

You turned, startled, only for Jisung to appear out of nowhere. One second it was just you and the stranger. The next, Jisung had him slammed against the concrete wall, rage pouring off him in waves.

“You must have a death wish,” he said, low and cold.

The man panicked. “I—I wasn’t trying anything—!”

“You touched what’s mine,” Jisung growled, twisting the man’s arm just enough to make him cry out.

“Jisung!” You ran up, grabbing his shoulder. “Stop it! He didn’t do anything!”

His grip didn’t loosen.

“Jisung, look at me,” you said, voice shaking. “Please. Let him go.”

His jaw clenched. Then, with a reluctant grunt, he dropped the man, who scrambled off into the night like his life depended on it.

When you got home, Jisung didn’t say a word. He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes dark and unreadable. You sat beside him, hesitant.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You think I’m angry because you went out alone?” he asked quietly.

“…Aren’t you?”

He looked at you. “No. I’m angry at myself. For not protecting you better.”

“Jisung, I’m not helpless.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I won’t burn this city to the ground if someone dares to touch you.”

You reached over, taking his hand. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

His throat bobbed. “Yes, I do. That’s how I keep you safe. I’m the villain, remember? Let me be the monster so you never have to be scared.”

You leaned your forehead against his. “I’m not scared of you.”

“I wish you were,” he whispered.

A week later, the man who touched you was gone.

No word. No body. Just… gone.

And you didn’t ask.

One evening, curled up on Jisung’s lap, you finally whispered, “He disappeared.”

He sipped his drink. “Yes.”

You hesitated. “Did you—”

He looked at you slowly. “I warned him.”

You swallowed, but didn’t press further.

Instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

He smiled against your cheek. “Keep me. Forever.”

---

That night, you had a nightmare.

You saw Jisung, bloodied, alone, walking through a dark hallway as people whispered behind him. You called his name, but he didn’t turn. You screamed, and still he kept walking until he vanished into the dark.

You woke with a start, breath ragged.

Jisung stirred beside you. “Baby?”

You couldn’t even answer. Just clung to him.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, no questions asked. “It was a dream. I’m here.”

You trembled. “I dreamed I lost you. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I’ll always find you,” he whispered, brushing your hair from your face. “Even if I have to tear the world apart.”

You buried your face in his chest. “Promise?”

He pulled you tighter. “I promise. No matter how dark it gets, I’ll never leave you behind.”

Han Jisung was a walking contradiction.

The man who played piano when he thought no one was listening. The man who bought a tiny kitten because he saw you smile at it once in a shop window. The man who wore blood like cologne, but flinched when you cried.

He was chaos wrapped in silk. A storm behind a smile.

But his love?

His love was unwavering. Fierce. Terrifying in its intensity, but pure in its purpose.

And if the world ever dared to take you from him?

Well.

It would burn.

---

Perm Tag : @m-325

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akindaflora · 14 hours ago

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Unhealthy Morning

Pairing: Chan x Female Reader

Genre: Pure fluff, with slight suggestive; established relationship

Quick Sum: After a crazy night out with the girls, Chan can't help but worry for you over your unhealthy breakfast.

Warning: mention of drinking, like I said some suggestive but nothing described just the idea of jumping someone. Cheating is mentioned but not between them.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

“Baby, that’s incredibly unhealthy,” Chan said, looking at your frying pan full of butter potatoes browned to a crisp and two sunny eggs browning around the edges as they cooked. “You’re gonna clog your arteries,” he said quietly as you cooked your breakfast.

He may have been right, but today, you woke up incredibly late due to a hangover from a particularly intense night out with the girls. And when you were this hungover, all your brain even asked for was grease and to lie until the pounding sounds of your head settled.

“Yeah, but it’s what the doctor ordered,” you said, mixing the potatoes more to keep them from burning. “Will you put toast in the toaster and get me the tomatoes?” you asked, watching the grease sizzle in the pan. Doing your best to pull back whenever the grease pops back. Chan hesitantly watched you as you cooked. He knew at times like this there was no convincing you to not eat the pile of grease and trust he’d tried before, but was stopped by the piercing glare that settled on your face.

So all he could do was do exactly as you asked, slicing the tomatoes thickly for your meal. You quickly took the pan off the heat when the eggs were just right, putting the pan on a rack to keep the table from burning. Chan brought over the toast and tomatoes with a fork and watched as you gobbled away at the meal.

After watching you slowly eat away, he shook his head and started making his own lunch. Something simple with a bit of protein and a lot of veggies. The exact opposite of what you were eating, hoping to set a better example, he knew you'd ignore. When he sat down, you were already dipping the toast into the sunny-side-up egg. Happily moving slowly at the meal.

He took a napkin, softly dabbing at the corners of your mouth. You smiled at him as you went back to eating.

And as he watch, he couldn’t help but think of this early morning when you called for him to pick you up.

You sounded tired and so giggle, “CHANNNNIIIIIEEEEE I NEEEEEED YOU,” you yelled into the receiver, giggling.

He pulled the phone from his ear and put it on speaker. “Are you okay baby what’s up,” He asked slightly concern.

“I’m so drunk and my feet hurt and I just wanna cuddle,” you said with a pout. “Come get me pleaseeeeee,” you said, dragging out each syllable.

Chan only shook his head with a slight smile, already looking for your location and picking up his keys. “Stay on the line baby, I’ll come get you,” he said pulling out of the driveway.

You both talked or more like Chan listened as you told your story of your wild night. From one of the girls flirting with a random guy, to how you were too drunk to even dance properly, tripping over your heels. While waiting in line for the bathroom, you saw a dramatic moment of a couple arguing because his girlfriend was making out with another girl. How the DJ was okay, but you wish CB97 was the head of the mixing table. Something he would smile at as he drove closer to you.

And while sometimes he didn’t know what you were saying, he listened, happily humming every now and then at the right moments. And before he knew it. He saw you outside with your friends. Some of their boyfriends are outside waiting for the other girls' rides to get here. You were still talking into the phone, playing with the ends of your hair, smiling so sweetly, he couldn't help but coo. And then he took an even closer look, he knew what you wore before leaving, but you still took his breath away, even if now you were probably a little sweaty and your makeup was beginning to fade, you were and always will be the most beautiful girl he's ever seen.

You spotted him and started to jump away, phone still in hand. Your hair bouncing in the air, the tight dress you wore sliding up slightly. “Careful baby ill come get you,” he said taking in every moment of you. He got out still allowing the phone to remain on the call because he knew you pout if he hung up even if he was standing right in front of you.

At the sight of him, you tried running towards him but tripped over your heels, landing right on your knees and hands. Your phone, dropping in favor of catching yourself. He quickly ran over picking you up as you sheepishly looked at him.

Your friends, all suddenly surrounding you to check up on you as Chan held you up by your waist. You slurred out your okays as you held onto his shoulder.

Chan quickly said goodbye to everyone, a grateful thanks to those who stayed to supervise the drunken group. After you waved goodbye, he quickly picked you up, bridal style, you with a mix of giggles and shrieks as he brought you to the passenger seat.

He set you down quickly, taking your heels off and rubbing your legs at the pain. He didn’t have the proper disinfectant but he could do that at home. He buckled you in with a small kiss to your head whipping the remaining debris from your hands.

“Let’s get you home, okay,” he said, softly closing the door and running to the driver's side. Chan often looked to your side, his hand holding yours as you told him more stories or random thoughts that would flood your drunken mind.

When you both finally arrived home, he picked you up from the car, not setting you down until he brought you to the bathroom. Carefully placing you on the bathroom counter, where he spent his time cleaning your sores and helping you shower. You giggled and kissed him at every chance you could get, which would deepen the red in his ears.

When he finally had you dressed and bandaged, he brought you back to the bedroom and cuddled the night away. After, of course, when he had to stop you from jumping him because he was simply too cute not to.

And now here he was with a slightly less chipper version of you, but his love growing nonetheless.

“Baby will you please just bite this vegetable,” he said poking a carrot in your direction. You glared at it like it had disrespected your morning, but at the look of Chan's soft eyes you quickly bit at the carrot, slowly munching away. He hummed with happiness and let you remain to finishing your meal.

When you were done, you kissed his head as you retreated back to bed in dire need to rot away into dreamland.

Chris followed, abandoning whatever was left of his lunch in favor of checking in on your wounds. “Let me message your feet,” he said as you peeked your head from the covers, at the sound of the bedroom door opening.

Before you could answer, he was already lifting part of the covers, rubbing away the pain the heels and applying pressure to your calves. You sighed in relief, nearly forgetting the pain entirely as everything seemed to hurt.

“Don’t you have work?” you asked quietly, not really wanting him to stop, but also not wanting to be the reason he had to postpone anything.

“Nope, today’s my day off, and I’m currently at the highlight of the day,” he said, applying pressure to the arch of your foot. You quietly moaned, not in a sexual way of desire but in a quiet contentment. He smiled deeply at the sound of your relief. Relief that he gave.

“You’re such a dork,” you said softly with a giggle.

“Mmm, but I’m your dork and I'm okay with that,” he said quietly.

You looked at him, watching his hands caressing your foot, the veins that decorated his hands tensing in the sunlight. You'd jump him if it wasn't for your head and the burning pain in your knees.

“If only stays knew their marriage material bias was rubbing my feet, they freak,” you said softly. He giggled at your comment, bending down to kiss your bandaged knees as he climbed back in bed, wrapping you in his arms.

“Too bad that’s for your eyes only,” he said, kissing your neck, then your check. Having some energy left you turn in his hold to kiss his lips softly, “sucks for them,” you sighed laying in his chest as your leg wrapped around his waist with the energy of possessiveness. Ignoring the pain because as any pain was worth being close to him.

A beat of silence was met as he hummed a song not quite released and rubbed circles into your back.

“So you think I’m marriage material, huh,” he said after a while. You only blushed, not quite asleep, as a soft hand smacked at his chest as you snuggled in more. Not ready to share how deeply obsessed you are with this man. Unbeknownst to you he was far worse for you, his hand caressing your back, as his mind traveled to the ideas of seeing you walk towards him in a white dress.

“I’m not hearing a denial,” he said, quietly kissing your head.

“Go to sleep, my pretty dork,” you said as your head buried into his neck, taking in the relaxing smell of him. And hiding the blush on your cheeks at the idea of being married to this man.

And at the soft sounds of his giggles, you finally fell asleep in the safest and warmest arms of the entire universe.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

AN// Hi this is that Chan fluff I was talking about earlier. While I like the idea of writing weddings I don't think I ever will. Soz but that's a delusional step I wont take LOL. I got pretty drunk not to long ago and was totally wrecked so I ended up making this disaster of a greasy breakfast and I couldn't help but to remember Chan eating straight lettuce and just knew he would disapprove at this meal lol. Hope you enjoyed!

Y❀Y✿

#bang chan #skz #bang chan x female reader #bang christopher chan #stray kids x you #christopher bang #bang chan x reader #stray kids x reader #bang chan fluff #stray kids fluff #stray kids scenarios #stray kids fic #bang chan scenarios

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softlysoul · 1 day ago

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pov ❀ kim jongseob x fem!reader

genre fluff, jongseob being a king as usual

a/n i’ve been on an ariana grande kick lately so enjoy my second fic based on one of her songs 🙂‍↕️

listen here

── .✦

You’ve always been good at pretending.

Smiling at the right times. Laughing when it’s expected of you. Keeping your rough edges dull and hidden away, while the softer ones were buried beneath walls you swore no one would ever break down. You’ve kept yourself at arm’s length—from others, from yourself—for as long as you can remember.

But Jongseob never asked you to take off the armor. He just met you where you were until you didn’t need it anymore.

It starts small. It always does.

A hand brushing yours while you lounge on his old couch, some obscure movie on the television casting a soft glow across the both of your faces. A look across the room when you say something wrong, or when you brush someone off, no judgment in his eyes, only patience.

He has this way of looking at you that makes you feel like maybe you're not as messed up as you think. Like you’re not hard to love. Like you’re not all jagged edges and great expectations.

You still remember the first time he saw you cry.

You’d been laughing a second before, recounting something stupid and trivial from your past. But something about the way he looked at you, really looked, unearthed something you'd buried deep. You broke mid-sentence, eyes stinging, voice splintering. You turned away, embarrassed.

He didn’t say anything.

Just reached out, gently turning your face back to his with the tips of his fingers. Then, when he was sure you weren't goin to run away, his voice came out, soft and gentle. “Don’t hide that from me.”

── .✦

Sometimes, you wonder how he truly sees you.

He listens when you ramble, even when you have nothing of substance to say. Somehow, he hears the things you don’t say, rather, the things you won't say. He reads between your words with incredible ease, never asking for more from you. You’ve never had to explain your fears to him, he just gets them.

You once asked, half-joking, “Are you psychic or something?”

He smiled at you from the floor, head resting against your knee. “No,” he murmured. “I just… care. That’s all.”

── .✦

It’s late when he shows up to your apartment.

You’d had a bad day. Your thoughts were overwhelming and you were close to drowning in the sea of your mind. You didn’t text him. You didn’t say a word, you could never ask him to pick up your broken pieces. But he knew. He always knows.

He doesn’t ask for permission when he lets himself in, knowing you always keep a spare key under your doormat. He walks to where you’re curled on the couch and pulls you into him. You melt before you even realize what’s happening. His warmth, his scent, his presence, it’s grounding and comforting, distracting you from any negative thoughts that intrude on your peace of mind.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers into your hair. “Just let me be with you.”

So you do.

And in the quiet, something clicks: you trust him. Somehow, despite him seeing you in your lowest moments, trapped with all your ugliest thoughts, he didn't run away, didn't push you to say more, he was just there, offering whatever you needed.

He didn't think less of you, although he definitely had the right to, he just took all your messiness in stride and loved you anyways.

── .✦

“Sometimes I wish I could see myself how you do,” you admit one night, voice small in the dark of his room.

He doesn’t hesitate. “You can. You just have to let yourself.”

You turn your head to look at him. He’s watching you like he always does, eyes filled with a gentle sort of wonder, like you’re art and haven’t realized it.

“I see everything,” he says. “Even the parts you think are too ugly, too broken. And I still think you’re... everything. Do you know how amazing you are, just for trying?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Why are you like this?”

His lips twitch. “Because I love you,” he says, like it��s the easiest thing in the world. “And you deserve to know what it feels like to be loved without conditions.”

── .✦

Loving Jongseob feels like slowly thawing.

You're slowly learning to stay. To trust. To breathe.

And maybe you’re not all the way there yet. Maybe there are still days you want to run away, still nights you flinch when he gets too close, when he accidentally brushes something in you that still hurts. But he stays, and so do you.

And maybe, one day, you’ll be able to look in the mirror and see what he sees.

But for now, this is enough.

His hands in yours. His eyes on you. And the quiet understanding that, for once, you're not running.

You’re finally home.

── .✦

softlysoul perm taglist - @markkiatocafe @theozia @hyeinsveil

#softlysoul #kim jongseob #p1harmony #p1h #jongseob #jongseob x reader #p1h jongseob #p1h kim jongseob #jongseob x y/n #kim jongseob x reader #p1h x reader #piwon x reader #p1harmony x reader #piwon #p1ece #p1harmony imagines #p1h fluff #piwon fluff #p1harmony fluff

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southconfessionpark · 2 days ago

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I know the fandom is crazy about Style and Kyman, and that's cool. But sometimes I wish the fandom would give more love to Kyle's ships with their canon love interests. I know they're all just one-episode thing, but they still have so much potential. Kybecca? It's the cutest, fluffiest thing ever. How can you look at them and not feel your heart melt? All the scenes of Kyle trying to win her heart and her not understanding a thing about what was happening were a gem. Plus, Rebecca's socially awkward personality had so much to offer, not only as Kyle's crush, but as a recurring character that would be a great foil for most of the other girls on the show. Also imagine the awkwardness between the two after the dance incident, when at the end of the episode her parents said they would allow their children to attend public school I was hoping that she and her brother would become recurring characters, too bad it didn't turn out that way. Kychole? They could have possibly been one of the most wholesome and healthy relationships on the show, too, and I think someone with Nichole's calm personality would be a great fit for Kyle as a foil to the chaos that usually surrounds him on South Park. Not to mention their shared interests like basketball that would help them connect, Cartman's racist prejudices on the comedic side, and the whole "I liked you but didn't do anything about it because I thought you were gay" thing is so funny to me. Kylie? It's definitely a toxic relationship, but a damn interesting one. An "artificial intelligence" that has a guy eating out of her hand, making him believe she's a helpless girl who needs him, exploiting her savior complex to her advantage and making her become her protector while she tries to carry out her evil plans? Maybe it's not very romantic, but there's a lot to explore there. Kydi? Your rival/friend gets a girlfriend, at first she doesn't catch your attention but as time goes by you get to know her better, you see that she's actually very nice and smart, you end up growing fond of her and while you watch how her relationship becomes toxic and your stupid savior complex makes you feel the need to help her and also... uh oh... maybe you're starting to feel something more for her, and as you get closer she doesn't seem to be entirely indifferent to you, you even have the potential to become a safe place for each other, but she's too proud to accept her relationship is a mess so she prefers to turn against you than to accept her mistakes because she hates hear "I told you so". It has the potential for so many things, angst, comfort, misunderstandings, fluff, slow burn, friends to lovers, lovers to enemies, something healthy, something toxic, it can be almost anything without being too ooc.

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darnell-la · 3 days ago

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THERE’S NO RUNNING ANYMORE

pairing: the void!sentry!robert reynalds x ex girlfriend!reader

summary: at first, y/n didn’t noticed how serious Bob’s condition was, but after awhile, it would begin to affect her. that’s when she decides to leave and start a new life, but Bob was to attached. he needs her.

warning: cnc, stalking, kidnapping, deaths, choking, abuse, toxic relationships, etc

note: DO NOT READ THIS STORY BEFORE READING THE WARNINGS! WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOU!

———

There were days Bob was everything y/n wanted. He was carrying. He was sweet. He was good-looking. He gifted her whenever he could. He treated her like she was the only thing he could live for. He was perfect for her, and she swore nothing would get in their way.

That was until he had his episodes. He was everything she didn’t want. He’d avoid her. He’d pick an argument just to yell at her and call her names. He’d lay his hands on her. He’d completely switched from what he was before.

If someone asked y/n months ago about Bob, she would only have amazing things and memories to speak about. Now that they’re dating, and she sees him almost all day, he can’t hide what he was hiding before, and he didn’t care to hide it from her.

Y/n has tried to break it with Robert plenty of times, but it ended the same every time. The first thing she’ll remember is the slap around, and the last thing is him on top of her, telling her she belongs to him, and needs her.

“What are you thinking about, babe?” Bob asked before he took a bite of his food. “Oh, nothing,” y/n lied before continuing to eat the food she cooked for the both of them.

“C’mon — You can tell me,” Bob said with a smile that would have y/n feel butterflies, but now, she can’t have that same feeling anymore. He trained it. He ruined her, and the more he smiled at her, acting like nothing happened in their relationship, the more she wanted to disappear.

“Nothing, babe — I promise,” y/n fake smiled with little to no eye contact. “You know, y/n — I try my best to reason with you, but you continue to lie to me. Why is that? I give you your space. I gift you. I love you. Hell, I even make you shake every night, yet you still lie to me. Why?”

Y/n’s eyes began to burn from the wave of anger and sadness that hit her. There was no one to go to and talk to about Bob. He used to be perfect, and now she’s terrified of the man.

“Bob, I said-“ before you/n could finish her sentence, the man slammed his hands on the table as he got up. Y/n looked down as he made his way over to her, knowing that if she got up, tonight would be a horrible night.

“Look- Look!” Bob said as he grabbed y/n’s face, making her look him in his eyes. “I get I can be rough sometimes, but it’s not my fault, okay? Okay!? I-If you just give me a few months, I can start to afford pills. Maybe then it’ll help me, but until then, I need you to stop acting scary,”

Y/n had heard him talk about help for almost a year now, and he has yet to get any. That’s when she knew it was time for her to disappear.

It’s been a year. Y/n has a great job, her own apartment, a great group of friends, and a happier life than she had just last year. Every day, she wished she had left earlier, knowing that if she did, she’d have less weight on her to carry.

“I can’t believe it’s so sunny today. When did New York become so beautiful?” One of y/n’s friends asked the group, starting a whole new conversation, then what they were having before.

Today felt amazing for y/n. The coffee is cold and sweet. Her hair decided to work with her today. Her outfit had gotten so many compliments, and she gets her check electronically later today.

Everything felt like a dream. Everything looked amazing until the sky slowly began to turn dark.

“What’s going on?” One of y/n’s friends asked as the whole tank got up to look out of the window. “Is it about to rain?” Another asked, but that couldn’t be. Most of the sky seemed pitch black.

“Maybe we should stay inside,” y/n said, not knowing what was going on outside, but her friend group was never the type to stand around and watch. They always feel the need to explore.

“C’mon,” one of her friends motioned before heading outside. Y/n stuttered, but ended up following her friend group with a sigh and eye roll. Once they made it outside, y/n couldn’t believe her eyes.

New York streets were long, and several blocks down seemed pitch black. Almost like an empty nightmare. What was happening?

“Maybe we should go,” y/n said as she began to back up. Before her friends could even tune around, they had disappeared in seconds. Y/n screamed as she watched their shadows on the ground like street art.

Y/n shouted her friend’s names as she backed up, knowing what had just happened to them. For a second, she hoped this was just some sick dream, or maybe even a prank gone too far, but this was New York. Disasters always happened here.

“They didn’t care about you,” a deep but familiar voice said. “No one ever has,” y/n had no idea where the voice was coming from. She looked around on the street and into shops, but everything seemed empty.

“Maybe it’s time for you to come back home,” y/n began to panicked, knowing whoever was speaking, was speaking to her. She was the only visible human being in the street.

“Up here,” the voice said, making y/n shoot her head to the sky. That’s when she saw it, or him. A black figure floating in the air with narrow bright eyes. Y/n’s heart dropped at the sight of the figure. He had to be inhuman.

“You don’t recognize me? — Well let me remind you,” before y/n could gather his sentences, the man flew down to the young lady with some type of super speed and wrapped her hands around her neck.

“Hey-“ y/n tried to fight, but that lasted shortly as he lifted her in the air, flying so high, they passed the highest building in New York. “Please let me go, let me go!” Y/n begged, only making the figure chuckle.

“I don’t think you’d want that — I’ve never wanted to let you go, but you just couldn’t get that — Even now, I still went through hell just to get back to you,”

Y/n had never been more confused in her life. She wanted to ask questions and speak to the man figure, but she had to keep herself breathing by holding onto his hands.

“C’mon — You can’t recognize me, but even a little?” The man asked, as he rewrapped his hands around y/n’s neck with a head tilt. That was when a small trigger came to life inside her head. “There she is — Can see the light lighting up in your eyes,”

“B-Bob?” Y/n asked. That’s when the man smiled, showing his bright white teeth. “Bingo,” y/n’s ex-boyfriend said before y/n blacked out.

“You’re still as beautiful as I remember,” Bobs normal voice spoke, waking y/n up. The fear in her eyes made Bob slightly smile, knowing she remember him. She never forgot him.

“It’s been so long — We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” Bob said as before slowly got up from a chair he had been sitting in, in the corner of the room. Y/n went to get up, but noticed her ankle was changed to the bed she was on.

“Bob, let me go — It’s been fucking years. Why are you doing this!?” Y/n grew a wave of anger, only making the man chuckle as he now stood on the side of the bed. That’s when y/n remembered how tall and big he was compared to her.

“No need to back up. It’s not like you’re going anywhere, anyway,” Bob said as y/n moved to the corner of the bed, only ending up hitting her back on the wall. Bob knew exactly what he was doing when he set up this room for her.

“Bob — What did you do to my friends?” Y/n asked. The man tilted his head as he looked directly into the young lady's eyes. “Why do you care? — It’s not like they cared for you, anyway,”

“Bob, they are my friends!” Y/n yelled. “Don’t!- Don’t you shout at me,” Bob growled through his teeth in anger. Y/n watched as his eyes lit up before going back to normal. Something was going on with him, and she didn’t know what.

“I know — Cool, right? After you left me, I turned to you know, drugs again. Ran out of people, so I took a trip down to South Asia. Long story short, I went to a lab that said they’d make me worth something- Came out like this,”

Y/n scanned the man, feeling like it hadn’t been a year since he’d seen him. He looked almost exactly the same. Nothing changed about him. Even his personality.

“But, don’t worry — Now, no one can take you away from me — Not even yourself,” Bob said before he quickly jumped onto the huge bed he had taken his time to pick out for y/n.

“No- No!” Y/n yelled as the man pulled her towards him by her ankles before smashing his lips directly onto hers. Y/n cried as Bob groaned. He hadn’t felt lips in months. He hadn’t felt her lips in months.

“It’s been a bit over a year, and it feels like just yesterday you were begging for me to lie with you,” Bob pulled back before going back in to kiss all over her upper body.

Y/n hated the way he spoke about her. It’s almost like he couldn’t see anything wrong with what he did and is doing to her.

“You’ve always been so damn sweet, baby — God, I’ve missed you,” Bob said right before ripping y/n’s sundress off with one pull. “Fuck,” the man groaned as y/n kicked, slapped, and scared.

“Pretty bra and pretty panties? Where was this when you were with me? Was I not enough?” Bob asked with that look in his eyes. It’s like he hated sympathy while doing the unthinkable.

“You didn’t love me like you said you did!?” Bob asked as his eyes grew dark in seconds. “I loved you with all I have, and what did you do? Leave me!? — Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got something for you,”

Y/n tried her best to calm the man down and get him off, but he was far gone. He always had been. As he came up between her legs, y/n came using help but cried loudly, regretting leaving him.

What if she tried to help him? What if she used her own money to get him on pills? What if she stayed with him and dealt with his behavior? This probably would have never happened, right?

“Cry for me, baby,” was all Bob said before he pushed at y/n’s entrance, slamming into her like a lifeless doll. This was his first time doing anything sexual while having powers. He wouldn’t possibly know how to handle himself while plunging into y/n.

“Oh, fuck,” Bob whined as he felt his cock written with y/n’s fluid. “Yep, yep, just look at me — Look at me,” Bob said as he held y/n’s face straight. “Just like that,” the man groaned as he slammed into y/n, who felt like her insides were going to rip.

“I could fuck you, and fill you for days, y/n — No wonder dudes always stalk after you — Your pussy’s so fucking good,”

Y/n went to open her mouth and say something, but nothing came out. Only gaps and whined. “That’s it — No need to speak when I’m in control,” Bob said as his hands traced down to her neck, once again gripping her tightly.

“Learn your place, and take whatever I give you — There’s no running now,”

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abbotjack · 2 days ago

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hey syd, how do you find the motivation to write?

you’ve blessed up with so many back to back hits and i can’t even finish my own drafts 😅

Ahhh, thank you so much for this message—it genuinely means a lot. I wish I could say the process is romantic or graceful, like “I light a candle and the words arrive fully formed,” but the truth is messier. So here’s a long, detailed, probably-too-honest breakdown of what actually keeps me writing!

1. Music as Architecture: Scoring the Scene Before It Exists

I don’t begin with plot. I begin with sound.

Music is the first language of my writing process. Before dialogue, before imagery, even before character voices settle into clarity, I reach for music—not as inspiration, but as foundation. The emotional resonance of a piece doesn’t come from what’s written first. It comes from what’s felt—and for me, that feeling is almost always coaxed into being by sound.

I build playlists with intention. They’re not background noise; they are, in effect, blueprints. Emotional schematics. Each playlist becomes a kind of private score to the story I’m trying to tell. Some are curated around character dynamics—slow-burn tension, fractured intimacy, long-restrained grief—while others are arranged around the arc of a chapter, a specific moment of revelation, or the rhythm of a confrontation that’s been building for pages.

One I return to frequently is my playlist titled romance coded songs for daydreaming. This collection isn’t simply romantic. It’s devotional. Every track pulses with ache, ambiguity, restraint, or surrender. Some are quiet, constructed in whispers and unresolved chords. Others swell—full-bodied and orchestral, like they were made to echo under dialogue. When I select a track for a scene, I’m not choosing something that sounds good—I’m choosing something that understands what the characters aren’t saying.

For example, while drafting a scene in which two characters finally acknowledge the emotional undercurrent they’ve spent chapters avoiding, I played “Youth” by Daughter on loop. The song's structure—soft beginnings, the build of vulnerability, the percussive collapse—mirrored the emotional terrain I needed the scene to follow. I structured paragraphs according to tempo. I paid attention to the way a sentence would feel if it mirrored the minor-key drop in the second verse. There was no outline for that moment—just the music, and the emotional proximity it allowed.

This is also how I build character tone. Jack Abbot, for instance, exists in a soundscape of restraint. His musical profile is sparse but deliberate. If a song has too many layers, it doesn’t fit him. He’s percussion and silence. He’s a baritone voice that almost breaks but never quite does. His playlist includes Nick Cave, Rhye, Radiohead, and Wye Oak. All of it low-register. All of it waiting.

Contrast that with someone like Robby, whose emotional landscape is much more open. His playlist includes acoustic guitar, brighter chords, vocal warmth. Writing him requires a different tempo entirely. The music doesn’t just help me define them—it helps me understand how they would inhabit the same silence differently. How Jack holds a pause versus how Robby lets one go.

Music is also what allows me to keep emotional continuity across chapters, especially when writing nonlinear drafts. If I leave a scene mid-emotion, I don’t always re-read it to find my way back in. I re-listen. Because tone can’t always be rebuilt from language alone. It needs something more primal—more bodily. The right song can take me back to the exact moment where I left a heartbeat hanging.

In many ways, music becomes a form of narrative foreshadowing. I will sometimes build a playlist that reflects where the story is going emotionally before I know the plot itself. This keeps the work honest. If the writing starts to deviate from the emotional logic of the music, I know I’ve veered too far. I follow the sound back to the truth of the characters.

Music also helps me write with silence. It teaches me how to use negative space, how to withhold, how to let a moment breathe. It’s the difference between telling the reader what happens, and letting them feel it arrive.

Writing without music, for me, would be like shooting a film without sound design. You could still see the action—but you’d lose the atmosphere, the friction, the undertow.

So I don’t start with plot. I start by listening. Because long before I can write a scene that feels right, I have to hear it.

2. Pinterest as Visual Architecture: Designing Mood, Movement, and Authority Before the First Line Is Written

I don’t use Pinterest as a wishful archive or a vague 'vibe check'—I use it as a method of composition. Visual curation, for me, is not decorative. It is foundational. Each board is a map of the world I’m building—not just aesthetically, but narratively. I approach Pinterest the way a director would approach a set designer or a cinematographer: what does this space communicate before the character even speaks? What are the silent cues? What does the light do in this corner? Where does the weight live?

When I began writing Irregularities, I knew immediately that the physical world needed to feel sharp. Unforgiving. As precise as the main character’s walk, and as deliberate as the silence she carries. So I built a Pinterest board that wasn’t just about hospitals—it was about posture, texture, and implied dominance. I titled the sub-board “Administrative Quiet"

Let’s walk through how that board became the scene.

The excerpt begins:

Hospitals don’t go quiet. Not really...

This sentence was written after pinning a photo of a long, fluorescent-lit hallway—no patients in sight, just two glass doors and a printer humming in the corner. The stillness wasn’t peaceful. It was artificial. Held. You could feel the machinery beneath it. I pinned images of empty waiting rooms at 7:00 AM, beige walls and clipped blinds, ceiling panels lit with a blue-cast flicker. These weren’t emotionally neutral images—they were controlled. Sanitized. And that control shaped the language. That’s why I wrote, “the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed.” That image didn’t come from thin air—it came from a visual impression of effortful order, translated into prose.

Now the wardrobe:

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so...

These lines are not just about clothing—they are about a constructed silhouette. I collected visual references of professional women in muted palettes—navy, ivory, charcoal—clothes that didn’t distract, but restrained. I noted how the lapel of a wool coat holds shape, how it creases with shoulder pressure on public transit. One image I pinned showed a woman in a government building, coat folded over her arm, face out of frame. What struck me wasn’t her expression—it was the control of her body language. No movement wasted. Everything designed to convey competency, not comfort.

This is what Pinterest offers: the vocabulary of nonverbal narrative. The reader doesn’t need to be told that this character has command. They can see it—in the lanyard clipped at the sternum, in the pen nested into the coil of the ledger notebook. These are visual indicators of someone whose presence is already telling the story.

The bag she carries? Not a briefcase. Not a tote. A leather bag, weighed down. I found images of field auditors and corporate compliance officers. What they carried was always functional. Heavy. Slung across the body like they were going into quiet battle. One particularly striking image was a government agent seated with their bag propped beside them, the weight pulling it slightly off-balance.

That image informed the line:

“...weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.”

Because that’s what her role demands: control not only of space, but of systems. Pinterest allowed me to see that system before writing it.

Even the typography in the line—

“Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.”

—was sourced. I pinned dozens of ID badge photos: hospital badges, federal agency badges, corporate visitor tags. Nearly all of them used a specific visual code: sans serif fonts, barcode beneath, matte finish. No frills. No decoration. Just clarity. That clarity carried over into the tone. The badge doesn’t say anything emotional, but it communicates status. The reader understands who she is by the way the badge is described, not because the badge tells them.

The final image that tied the board together—and became the spine of the entire scene—was one of a woman standing alone at a reception desk, her hand resting lightly on the counter, eyes not visible. The posture said everything: I don’t need to announce myself. You already know why I’m here. That photograph became the emotional thesis of the audit character. It became the justification for this line:

“You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package.”

That sentence came from studying how power moves silently. Pinterest didn’t just provide aesthetics. It gave me an understanding of what not to write. She doesn’t have to be cruel. She doesn’t have to be loud. She’s effective because she doesn’t overperform.

This is how Pinterest operates in my process: as visual dramaturgy. It gives me the syntax of a room before a character steps into it. It teaches me how to build authority without exposition. It reveals the emotional texture of materials and shows me how those textures affect posture, sound, breath.

By the time I sat down to write the passage, I already knew what kind of pen she’d use. I knew where the weight of her coat would shift on her arm as she walked. I knew what the receptionist would feel, even if he said nothing. Because I had already seen it all—in images, arranged not by color, but by function.

Writing begins long before the first sentence. For me, it begins in images. And Pinterest gives me the scaffolding I need to make the emotional structure of a scene visibly inevitable.

3. Women’s & Gender Studies as Emotional Infrastructure: Writing Through the Lens of Power, Silence, and Embodiment

My Women’s & Gender Studies minor is not a separate thread from my writing—it is the framework that holds the emotional weight of my stories. The way I write intimacy, the way I construct silence between characters, the way I describe bodies without flattening them into objects of narrative convenience—all of that stems from the work I’ve done studying gender, sexuality, emotional labor, and power dynamics across disciplines.

In many ways, WGS gave me the vocabulary to write what I already felt. It gave shape to my instincts. It gave structure to the things I knew were meaningful but didn’t yet know how to articulate—especially in scenes where meaning isn’t built through plot, but through closeness, discomfort, observation, and restraint. It taught me that you don’t always need to narrate the explosion. You can write the tension in the room before the match is lit—and that can be just as devastating.

One of the most formative experiences I’ve had in this program came through a seminar on Love and LGBTQ+ Literature, where we read Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body. That novel changed the way I think about character voice, emotional intimacy, and the unspoken power of desire.

The narrator of Written on the Body is never gendered. You don’t know who they are in terms of identity markers—only that they are grieving, longing, remembering. What Winterson does is strip away everything the reader might use as shorthand. You can’t rely on gender to code meaning. You can’t default to assumptions about power. Instead, you have to engage with the emotional architecture itself: how the narrator touches, how they hesitate, what they remember and what they can’t forgive.

There’s a moment in the book where the narrator writes:

“Why is the measure of love loss?”

That line, more than almost any I’ve ever read, defines what I try to capture in my work. Not just love as presence, but love as aftermath. As damage. As absence. It’s the question that haunts every emotionally repressed character I write. Jack Abbot doesn’t confess easily. He doesn’t live in declarations. He lives in restraint, in the tremble under control. And when I write him, I’m thinking not about what he says—but what he avoids. What he notices and doesn’t act on. What he would rather bury than admit. Those choices are not arbitrary. They are gendered. They are socialized. And they are shaped by a framework of masculinity that I’ve spent years studying critically.

WGS taught me that emotion is never neutral. That every expression of feeling—especially in professional, clinical, or institutional settings—is shaped by larger systems of power. When a woman hesitates before raising her voice in a hospital hallway, that’s not just personal—it’s systemic. When a man over-explains something he’s already decided, that’s not just characterization—it’s training. My education in WGS allows me to embed these dynamics into my writing without ever needing to spell them out. I let them live in the dialogue. In the blocking. In the interruptions.

It also taught me how to write the body—not as spectacle, but as memory. As site. As language. In trauma-informed narratives, I think constantly about the concept of embodiment: how a character holds their own history, how they experience space, how they control or surrender their physical presence depending on who is watching. A scar isn’t just a scar. A hand held too long isn’t just affection—it’s permission, or protest, or confession. These small gestures carry the weight of entire emotional arcs.

In scenes like the trauma bay in Irregularities, where the power dynamic is unstable but unspoken, I write through the lens of perception and structural tension. Jack doesn’t order her to follow him—he invites her in a tone sharp enough to double as a challenge. And she accepts, not because she’s obedient, but because she understands that to hold power in a space like his, she has to first observe it on its own terms. That’s the heart of feminist narrative structure: the refusal to flatten power into domination, and the insistence on showing how it moves—quietly, relationally, through invitation and resistance.

She’s not trained for trauma. Her authority isn’t built for blood. But she enters the space with something equally dangerous: institutional clarity. Audit folder to chest. Posture rigid but controlled. She doesn’t flinch—not when the man flatlines, not when Jack cracks the chest open, not when the room shudders beneath its own adrenaline. This is not the traditional arc of a woman proving she’s strong enough to be “one of the boys.” It’s not about toughness. It’s about refusing to be displaced. Staying. Watching. Speaking when it matters.

And when she does speak, it’s surgical: “If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer, you might want to narrate it for the notes.” That’s not sarcasm. That’s labor. That’s a woman doing the intellectual work of keeping systems accountable even when the system is breaking in real time. It’s not framed as a dramatic triumph. It’s woven into the room’s rhythm. That is what my WGS education gave me: the ability to stage systemic critique as lived experience, not speechmaking.

The tension between them is not romance—not yet. It’s structural. Gendered. Bureaucratic. He saves lives. She tracks what it costs. He performs heroism beneath policy; she protects the institution by demanding transparency. But the beauty of that scene isn’t in their conflict—it’s in the recognition. The moment he stops seeing her as an enemy and starts seeing her as a witness. A woman who does not flinch when power becomes visceral. A woman who wants the truth not to punish him, but to understand the logic beneath the violation.

That’s WGS on the page. Not a lecture. Not a slogan. But a moment of shared exhaustion between a man with blood on his sleeves and a woman with ink-stained hands—both fighting to keep a system alive in different ways. And neither of them willing to back down.

WGS also gives me access to the emotional language of refusal. Not every love story is a yes. Some are a near-miss. A repetition. A delay. Some characters don’t change, not because they are underdeveloped, but because they were never taught how. Writing that kind of character—especially a man—is often seen as a risk. But in WGS spaces, I learned to see that as realism. As tragedy. As the cost of structural silence.

And then there’s this: WGS trained me to read literature with historical precision and emotional context. I don’t read romance without thinking about labor. I don’t write desire without considering who’s allowed to want out loud and who isn’t. When I craft a scene between two people who are falling apart in slow motion, it’s not just about heartbreak. It’s about who is allowed to grieve and how. That framing changes everything.

So yes—my WGS minor is academic. But it’s also intimate. It’s present in the cadence of a hospital hallway scene. It’s in the way a woman adjusts her sleeve before speaking. It’s in how Jack Abbot lingers outside the door, hand resting on the frame, saying nothing. And it’s in the way a reader feels something tighten in their chest when that silence is finally broken.

4. How to Read Literature Like a Professor as Narrative Blueprint: Grief, Space, and the Unsaid in The House She Left You

Thomas C. Foster’s How to Read Literature Like a Professor is not just a guide for decoding fiction—it’s a manual for building resonance. When I write, especially something as emotionally dense and grief-stricken as The House She Left You, I’m not just writing characters or scenes. I’m constructing a layered system of symbols, silences, spaces, and ruptures that mean more than they say. Foster’s framework reminds me that meaning is never linear. It’s recursive. It echoes in what’s withheld.

In this story, I’m writing about two people who survived the same woman in different ways—one as a sister, one as a lover—and now find themselves circling each other inside the shell she left behind. Every scene is built with symbolic architecture, and much of that draws directly from the interpretive tools Foster provides.

Let’s begin with the house.

Foster’s chapter “Geography Matters” teaches us that setting is never neutral. A house isn’t just a house—it’s a body, a history, a character. The house in The House She Left You is not shelter. It’s aftermath. It’s her, even in death. The hallway still smells like her. The bedroom is sealed like a wound. The silence in the walls is heavy with memory, with guilt, with rot. This isn’t just description—it’s narrative geography. The house itself is a haunted organ, and Pope, when he slips through the door without knocking, becomes not an intruder but a ghost. He’s not entering a space. He’s re-entering a story.

That brings me to Foster’s chapter “Every Trip is a Quest.” Movement in fiction—whether across a state or down a hallway—always means more than logistics. When the narrator walks the length of the hall at 2:37 a.m., barefoot, every step is a spiritual return to what she’s refused to touch. The house knows it. She knows it. She approaches her sister’s old bedroom the way you approach a grave you’ve tried not to visit. She knows Pope is inside before she sees him—not because it’s predictable, but because the logic of grief demands it. Her movement is the quest: not for Pope, not even for closure—but for language, for some way to name what was never said while her sister was alive.

That silence is its own language. Foster’s “Nice to Eat with You: Acts of Communion” reminds us that shared rituals—eating, drinking, sitting together in the dark—are not neutral acts. They’re symbolic ones. In this story, Pope offers her a glass of water in a kitchen where everything is decaying. He asks her if she wants him to stay in a house that smells like her sister’s ghost. These aren’t practical questions. They’re ritualized tests of trust. Communion, in this context, doesn’t mean food. It means presence. Will you let me stay? Will you let me see the parts of you your sister never let anyone touch?

Foster’s “Marked for Greatness” also lingers in my mind. In that chapter, he discusses how physical scars, limps, and bodily damage often symbolize internal wounds. In my story, those marks aren’t visible—but they live in language. In the sister’s needle track marks. In the narrator’s clenched jaw, her white-knuckled grip on a sink, her inability to look Pope in the eyes. These are not merely emotional reactions—they are traumatic inscriptions. The body remembers. The house remembers. The hallway remembers. She sleeps in sweat and silence because grief is not just loss—it’s infestation.

And then, perhaps most importantly, Foster’s “It’s All About Sex…” and “…Except Sex” chapters remind us that eroticism in literature is never just about pleasure. It’s about power, memory, transference, guilt. In The House She Left You, the sex is not tender. It’s not clean. It’s not a reward. It’s something far more difficult: inheritance. What happens when the man your sister destroyed is the same man who knows what she did to you? What happens when the body you’ve always wanted is tied, irrevocably, to the person you’ve always hated most?

The physicality in that final scene is ritualized grief. Pope is not just taking her apart—he’s answering a need that has never been allowed to speak. It’s confession. It’s transference. It’s everything the sister stole. Foster’s frameworks let me write that scene with full awareness that this is not about seduction. This is about grief. About legacy. About what happens when the thing you’ve always wanted finally wants you back—but not in time to save anything.

So much of what I learned from Foster is that meaning can live in the quiet. In the spacing between lines. In who speaks, and who doesn’t. Pope’s silence is an act of control. The narrator’s refusal to cry is an act of survival. When she finally says “I wanted you anyway,” it lands not as scandal but as resurrection—the first truth spoken without her sister watching.

This is how I use Foster: not to write symbols for their own sake, but to embed emotional weight in every image. A door left open. A bed made. A woman on her knees, not in submission, but in reclamation.

5. Hyperfixation as Creative Engine: When the Scene Flatlines and You Keep Writing Through It

When I wrote the trauma bay flatline scene in Built for Battle, Never for Me, I didn’t stop to outline. I didn’t think about structure. I didn’t care how long it would take or how much it would wreck me.

I just kept writing. Because the scene had already begun bleeding in my hands—and the only thing I knew how to do was keep going.

That’s what hyperfixation is for me. It’s not a creative process. It’s a response to emotional triage. It’s how I write scenes where someone’s chest caves under compressions, where a man who once said “I’ll stay” walks back into the story with a wedding ring he didn’t have when he left.

I couldn’t write that scene from a distance. I had to be inside it. Inside the monitor scream. Inside the gloves. Inside the moment he realizes the woman coding on the gurney is the same one he stopped texting back.

The pacing in that scene—seconds tracked like breaths, dialogue stripped down to bone—isn’t calculated. It’s instinct. I knew the time stamps before I knew the resolution. I knew the flatline would come. I knew Jack wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t yell—he would just press harder. Because that’s the only thing he knows how to do. When love fails, he reverts to protocol. To trauma code. To hands.

Every line in that sequence is written like the body remembers—short, clipped, then suddenly flooding. That’s how grief moves. That’s how adrenaline hides pain. And when you’re hyperfixated, you don’t step away from the scene to ask what it means. You stay. You fold his gloves into your own hands. You sit in the corner of the CT hallway with blood on your sleeves and try to make the sentence “I’ll wait this time” sound like penance and not delusion.

I didn’t write that scene over a week. I wrote it in one breathless session—because the story wouldn’t let me out. Because I couldn’t sleep knowing Jack Abbot had felt her pulse disappear beneath his hands. And I couldn’t stop until I got her back.

Hyperfixation lets me hold tension for 10,000 words without blinking. It lets me write time like it’s elastic. One second becomes three pages. One gesture—his hand brushing her temple—becomes an entire act of repentance. This isn’t indulgent. It’s necessary. That’s how you earn the moment when she wakes up. That’s how you make the ring visible. That’s how you write heartbreak that feels like a new kind of CPR—violent, slow, necessary.

I couldn’t have written that moment—“You didn’t change your emergency contact?”—if I wasn’t submerged. If I hadn’t been tracing Jack’s guilt like it was a second spine. That line doesn’t come from plot. It comes from the hours spent wondering what does it mean to be someone’s backup when they’ve stopped showing up?

Hyperfixation doesn’t just keep me writing—it keeps the emotional stakes coherent across collapse. I don’t have to look back to remember what Jack said the last time they saw each other. I feel it in the rhythm of his silence now. I don’t need to check whether she moved on. I know she didn’t—because the way she reacts to that ring is the climax, not the aftermath.

And Jack?

He doesn’t fall apart when he sees her blood. He falls apart when she asks, “You’re married?” and he says, “Not yet.”

That’s what hyperfixation allows me to write: not the tragedy of death, but the tragedy of timing. Of the people we almost had. The lives we could’ve lived if we’d just stayed one more day. One more night. One more breath.

So no—I don’t write this way because it’s healthy. I write this way because it’s the only way that moment ever gets told.

Because love didn’t save her.

Because Jack couldn’t.

Because I had to.

And that’s really what it comes down to—I write how I feel, and I feel everything all the way down. Whether it starts with a song, a picture, a classroom conversation, or a scene that won’t stop clawing at me until I type it—everything I create is layered. Lived-in. Edited like a film and written like a wound. These aren’t just stories—they’re places I’ve had to survive to get out of. And I think that’s the point. I don’t believe in waiting for inspiration. I believe in building it from the ground up: sound first, image next, theory underneath, obsession layered in, and then finally—emotion made clean enough to bleed on the page. That’s how I write. That’s why I write. And if it hurts a little to read? Good. It means it found your pulse.

Please hear me when I say this: your unfinished drafts are not failures. They’re blueprints. Grief maps. Training grounds. Some scenes are meant to be sketches. Some characters live in fragments for a while before they’re ready to speak. But that doesn’t mean your voice is missing—it means it’s gathering. You don’t need to write fast. You don’t need to finish everything you start. You just need to stay close enough to the stories that matter to you that, when they’re ready—you’re the one who gets to bring them to life. And you will.

#I hope this is helpful #if not im sorry #ask #anon ask #writing tips

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kaiasky · 2 days ago

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so I do flow art things & obviously this has a lot of woo & astrology folks. & I have figured out a BANGER script for handling these. it works so so well

I really like the aesthetic of astrology & occult & especially how you can weave connections between numerology and tarot and astrology (get em on side)

Buuuuut... idk... astrology seems fun until people start making decisions about/for you based on it & then it's so obvious how terrible it is. (the hesitance is important u don't wanna be lecturing u wanna be sharing ur honest thoughts)

I once talked to this guy who said that because his girlfriend was a water sun fire moon, she was just always mad for no reason & that he didn't need to listen to why she was mad bc he understood that it was just her nature. what the fuck man!! (get people on side by conjuring a Shitty Dude. the guy is 100% real though.)

Buuuuut that I think they can be neat as a social technology to have deeper conversations without it being awkward! Ex: If somebody asks "what do you admire about yourself" I'd be super tempted to make some joke answer. but being able to talk genuinely about how u see urself is useful!

wait. okok I'm a cap sun virgo moon aries rising. stereotypically what does that tell you about me. (fun minigame!)

Rejected: "other than what time my mom gave birth" (u can throw this in with the right crowd for a laugh but 3/4 times I had to like explain. unfun)

(looking for stuff like hard worker, organized, leader, routines, jobs & material success) ok god I wish I'm sooo lazy and disorganized there's like 4 pans in my sink right now probably.

so like idk inferring from the signs to the personality is I think totally wrong like. [draw an incorrect & possibly insulting conclusion from their signs]. which is like so rude. but like when you explain it [repeat something they've attributed to their signs] it's like a good way to talk about yourself on a deeper level. (show u are listening. also demonstrate zodiacal knowledge by pulling out insulting stereotype for their moon/sun combo.)

the thing I do relate to with "earth sign" is that. when I want to comfort somebody the most natural way is by doing something physical. yknow--let me get you some water. I'm sorry your head hurts, here's some ibuprofen. let me cook you soup. let me bike to chipotle and buy you a burrito. like I know some people who... you just talk to them and you remember everything you love about the world. and I have to practice & work really hard to get close to that. but I *can* insist you stay hydrated & I think that counts for something. (playing, in good faith, the astrology psychoanalysis game. By playing the game well, it demonstrates my thesis about how it's a useful game but a terrible belief.)

but even then there's still... something about it that weirds me out like.. I feel like once I tell somebody my chart, it's easy to unconsciously remember the things that fit the stereotype and not the bits that don't fit, flattening people. idk it's kinda unavoidable, I feel the same with like "nerd" or "raver". or gender stereotypes too. Like it's unavoidable but I wish I could know people as just themselves without that baggage, right. (THAT'S RIGHT FUCKERS WE'RE GONNA TALK ABOUT GENDER ROLES. but also like. i think this plays well in the flow community where people do value being individuals & the idea that someone should try to know *you* at a deep and honest level. it's tailored to the crowd.)

(here is where I play my private little prank) i guess the other way I relate to earth sign stereotypes is like. ok when I was explaining how I feel about astrology it's all about the effects, right. Like it's not "I don't like it bc it's factually wrong" or "I like it because it connects me to spirituality". I don't like it because it's prejudiced and unfair. but I'm sometimes cautiously fond of it bc it's a conversational tool to have deep talks about personal subjects. For me it's all about what it does and how it leads people to treat others. (that's right fuckers. I don't believe in astrology Because I'm An Earth Sign. it was all leading up to this.)

generally at this point it's time to let other people talk so I don't sound lecture-y

idk like. idt I'm gonna make people stop using astrology but I do feel like it maybe gives people a perspective of like.. "oh yeah it does seem pretty fucked to use this predictively, I do rly wish people would see the real me". at the very least I hope I give them something to think abt next time they trip lmao

#kaia.mypost

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sttmh · 1 day ago

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Hi there! So i just found this blog and wanted to read it all, but i never heard of anything called sttmh and have some questions(btw you could add faq in your masterpost so you won't need to answer to this kind of questions in future, but that's just a suggestion)

1 what is sttmh, how does it work and did you made it or is that something made long time ago?

2 is this an au or alternative mv, or at, or have you not clasified it yet?

3 how to call you, what are your pronouns, are you +18 or a minor?(you don't have to answer if you don't want to)

4 I saw you rebloged some stuff at start of the blog, is it your second acount? If yes what is it about, why did you make this acount ect.

5 how does this archive thing work

6 how does it all started and why did you decided to make this blog

7 when did this blog started or when was the first post about sttmh and from who was it(i supose it's you but just to be sure)

8 what kind of creator are you? Are you an artist, a writer or do you think of yourself just as a person with too much time? How do you classify yourself?

9 I saw there is some art in blog, but i thought it's better to ask, is this art yours or do you reblog other people's art, or meaby someone makes it for you

10 is it partly an error ask blog?

11 do you ship any sanses and are there any ships in sttmh

12 where should i start? Does this blog have all the info or should i first look up what sttmh is?

Thank you in advance, i wish i can explore another beautiful blog as soon as posible and remember to never stop doing something that gives you and others joy, that's all from me, I wish you all the best ^^

Oh! A Q&A post is a wonderful idea! I'll make sure to make one after I answer these (I will likely just copy and paste, though XD).

STTMH is short for Sans Tumbles Through the Multiverse Headfirst, a story I've been working on for a little under a year and a half, now. This blog is the platform I use to talk with my readers, answer questions, write drabbles, share fanart, and this blog is a place where readers can interact with Error in my story (sort of like the format of the original Ask Error blog).

This is an alternate multiverse.

My name is Papil or Butter, I use she/her (though I don't really care which pronouns you guys use), and I am an adult.

I originally posted things about STTMH on my personal blog, but I decided to separate my STTMH blog from my personal one, as I did not want any of my browsing preferences to affect others' experiences of the story. -> I.e., I am someone who prefers to customize my feed, and will use blocking tags and accounts if I don't want to see their posts (this is nothing reflecting on the person running the blog). My personal blog is one where I mainly post Undertale reblogs, and sometimes I will include little rambles that can vary anywhere from writing to something my cat did.

If you are referring to the masterposts, they are my attempt to organize the quickly increasing number of posts relating to the project. I'm trying to make they easy to browse as well as search for (though they are more of a work in progress).

STTMH started on a whim over the Christmas holiday while I was in the middle of nowhere. I was sitting on the couch, watching TV, laptop on my lap, and thought to myself: "... I wish there were more Classic stories." And the rest is history.

I started this blog, I believe, on Jan. 8th of this year, though the first post about STTMH was on Jan. 8th of 2024, when I posted the link to the second chapter of the story.

I consider myself a writer, though I occasionally like to doodle.

Both! If the art is not mine, I always include credits with links wherever possible! -> These are usually reblogs of or asks with fanart.

Yes, this blog is partly a place where readers can send asks to Error, similar to the original Ask Error blog.

I don't have any preferences on ships, and there are no ships in STTMH, at least as of right now. Romance is not a focus of the story, so any possible romance I may leave to after the main story or drabbles. Anyone can ship any characters in my story, however! I don't mind. ^^

I'd recommend catching up on the main story on AO3 first. Otherwise, drabbles and asks can be read in practically any order!

#sttmh #sttmh q&a

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presidenthades · 2 days ago

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Fandom PSA: Fanworks Permission Statements and why you should make one if you’re a fic writer!

At some point, most of us fanfic writers have probably thought, “I wish someone would make fanart/podfic/fanvid/translation/etc. about my fanfic.”

For this to happen, first there must be a reader who enjoys the fic enough that they feel compelled to make a derivative fanwork. This is a necessary condition—but not a sufficient one!

Most of the time, this potential podficcer or translator will also seek permission from the fic writer to make their derivative fanwork. As a writer, you might think, “Of course I’ll give permission! Why wouldn’t I? I would LOVE to have a podfic/translation/whatever.”

However, this fact is not actually obvious to others. Some writers don’t want people to make derivative works based on their writing. Some writers have certain conditions that they require. The podficcer/translator/whoever has no idea of knowing what these conditions are unless they:

ask the writer for permission, or

can find the writer’s permission statement.

You might think, “Option A sounds simple. If someone is interested, they can just ask me for permission, and I’ll tell them any conditions I might have.”

Well…that might be simple for you, but it isn’t as simple for the person approaching you.

Consider the POV of a hypothetical podficcer. They read your fic. They love it! They want to make a podfic of it! But when they check the notes on your fic and your AO3 profile, they find nothing indicating whether you would even be receptive to a podfic.

They have several options, depending on what means of communication you have made available:

Comment directly on the fic asking for permission to make a podfic. Wait and hope that you respond quickly enough that the podficcer still has the requisite enthusiasm to record the podfic. (Enthusiasm can wane the longer they wait.)

Send you a message on another website, like Tumblr or Reddit, assuming that you’ve shared your username somewhere easily accessible on AO3/the fanfic website. Again, wait and hope that you respond quickly enough.

Decide they would rather not bother with the hassle of waiting and hoping, so they move on to another fanfic whose writer DOES have a permission statement.

If the podficcer had known upfront that you would be OK with a podfic, they could have just recorded the podfic ASAP while they were at the height of their enthusiasm. If the podficcer reallyyyy loves your fic, they might be willing to do Option A/B and wait anyway. But sometimes, Option C is just simpler, especially if there are other fics that the podficcer is interested in recording.

Hopefully you are now thinking, “A permission statement makes sense, so I can maximize the odds that someone will make a podfic/translation/etc. But how do I write a permission statement? What do I include? Does it have to be a blanket permission statement, or can I add conditions?”

There are resources that can help you! One that I’ve seen recommended is this Fanworks Permission Statement Builder, which helps you create a personalized permission statement in just a few steps. You can edit the output with whatever additional conditions you might have. There is also a Directory of Fanwork Creators with Permission Statements if you want to consult it for examples or other resources. I have a permission statement on my AO3 profile.

You should, of course, be comfortable with your permission statement. If you would not be comfortable with a blanket permission statement, then include the conditions that you would like to request/require.

Keep in mind that more conditions/obstacles might lower someone’s enthusiasm to make a derivative work. For example, let’s say a podficcer is deliberating which of two fics they want to record.

Fic 1: The writer has a blanket permission statement on their AO3 profile allowing fanworks like podfics. They just ask that the podficcer use the “Inspired By” feature upon posting on AO3. The podfic can be posted elsewhere, but the writer would like for it to also be posted on AO3.

Fic 2: The writer has a permission statement on their AO3 profile which requires that the podficcer reach out beforehand to explicitly confirm permission to record whatever fic the podficcer is interested in. The podfic can ONLY be posted on AO3 and cannot be posted anywhere else.

Based on what I’ve heard from several podficcers, if all other things are equal, they would prefer Fic 1 over Fic 2. Fic 1’s permission statement is straightforward: just make sure to appropriately credit the original writer, and post the podfic on AO3.

Fic 2 is more complicated. The podficcer has to take the extra step of reaching out to the writer, with no guarantee that the writer will respond promptly. The waiting time means that the podficcer might lose the spark of inspiration for “spontaneous podding,” as one person called it.

Also, the requirement to only post on AO3 can be confusing. AO3 cannot host audio files. The podficcer must host the audio file elsewhere, and then they link to that file when they publish on AO3. Does the writer understand the difference between hosting and posting? Will the podficcer need to clarify what the writer intends? This also means that if the podficcer wants to post on another website, they no longer have that option.

If the podficcer has to jump through several hoops to record Fic 2, they might just move on to a simpler option, like Fic 1.

This does not mean that you, the writer, must write a blanket permission statement! As stated above, you should make sure you’re comfortable with your own permission statement. Include all the conditions that you would be satisfied with. Just keep in mind what the potential artist/podficcer/translator/etc. might be considering on their end.

As an example of a multivoice collaborative podfic, check out MG101: Intro to Other Magics, a Merlin x HOTD crossover that I helped create!

If this post inspires you to make your own permission statement, please let me know! I am participating in a podfic event called Voiceteam 2025, and I get bonus points for every person whom I inspire to make a permission statement. 😊 You can just let me know in a reblog, comment, or DM whether you’ve made a permission statement.

#psa #fandom #permission statements #fanfic #fanfic writers #fanworks #fanart #podfic #translation #voiceteam

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cultkinkcoven · 2 days ago

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hello hello!!! i was wondering if you could offer advice... some words of encouragement... something, you know? but its totally okay if you cant, id just like to know your perspective i suppose

so, im a fairly young practitioner. im closing in on my first year of practicing with deities, this november will be my anniversary of when i started. and, in the span ive been working with deities, according to them and my friend who practiced witchcraft for 6 years, ive made a shit load of progress.

my deities kept telling me over and over how everything will be alright, how eventually i wont look at someone else's path and think "i wish that was me", and ect. i've had multiple deep heartfelt discussions on my jealousy issues and my deities try their best to comfort me, reassure me, and so on. but its like... i dunno... when i see someone online who has such a fruitful relationship with their deities, who seems so well established in their life and practice, it just makes me feel a bit... inadequate in return.

one of the reasons im coming to you specifically is that - well - i heavily admire your work and relationship with your deities. you seem able to be so completely comfortable with your path and your loved deities, and i cant help but read how smitten you and your deities are for each other, the experiences, the altars you make, the knowledge you have on so many diverse and interesting topics and... truthfully, i end up crying sometimes because i feel as if ill never live up to the type of wizard that you are. i know its stupid, itll most likely fade with time as i gain more experience with my deities, and its not as if what we have is not amazing. i love them and i absolutely wouldnt trade what ive gone through with them, but i just... i just wish i could speed up time. that i could see into the future and know if im ever going to be half of what you are.

i do tarot readings for myself and my friend has done them as well, they always come out saying ill be absolutely wonderful as a witch. that ill be so happy and fulfilled, but it just takes time, it takes living out my tribulations and reading each sentence of my book instead of worrying about the last page, but im just... i just cant seem to tell myself that. i know that no matter how much my deities will gently hold me and kiss me with reassurance, that no matter how much my cards will give me the most vivid descriptions of my future that they can, none of it will actually do anything if i do not believe it myself. and i know it sounds silly, but since youre one of the individuals that i look up to the most, i thought youd be able to help.

im sorry for the long rant, and youre free to trash this ask or something. ill totally understand. thank you for reading this far anyway. <3

This ask is from so long ago but it feels very relevant now. You’ve probably already dealt with this so I’m just gonna yap.

I always find messages like this funny when they’re directed at me, I’m always flattered and surprised that people view my work and relationships as exemplary.

It’s funny because I still have this exact same sense of yearning and jealousy at times towards other people’s craft. There’s someone I’m friends with on here that’s really close and chummy with Lord Hermes. And I’ve always felt like “damn he’s never so friendly with me”. Like he’s great, but he just doesn’t talk to me the way he talks to them. But on the flip side, that person doesn’t know Lucifer nearly as well as I do.

A year or so ago I felt the exact same towards Lord Lucifer. There was a witch I was following on Instagram that had just such a beautiful and cozy relationship with him, and I wanted that.

It’s funny looking back in hindsight from where I am now. Funny because, near the beginning of our relationship, the dynamic between Lucifer and I felt far more romantic and classy. It was very controlled, affectionate, playful, he was always sweet gentle and kind.

Now Lucifer is still all of those things, but he no longer has to worry about dazzling me as much. We get into petty stupid little arguments, we had one last night. He gets frustrated with me when I don’t listen, and I get frustrated with him when he ignores me. He bothers me sometimes, I annoy him sometimes. He doesn’t approach me with the same “hello! hello! my dear! you’re here! this is so exciting!”, though he does still express pleasure in seeing me, it is far more casual now.

I don’t think the me from a few years ago would envy how our dynamic has evolved, but this is not a bad thing at all. People see the chocolates, the flowers, the kind messages. I think that for most practitioners, once you get to this stage in the relationship where intimacy and love are not pursuits, but affirmed and constant elements, things in reality start to be more complex than how they appear. And for the person in that position, things just feel extremely normal.

Don’t get me wrong, I am beyond blessed to be in Lucifer’s presence at any time. But, for example, the relationship I have with Aphrodite is far more polished and clean, light, fluffy and pure than the one I have with Lucifer. Aphrodite and I don’t bicker ever, I’ve never been frustrated at her, never felt the need to talk back to her. But I don’t know Aphrodite nearly as well as I know Lucifer. Lucifer knows me so well he knows exactly how I am going to react to his words. So he chooses them deliberately, sometimes to intentionally piss me off, i’m a way that Aphrodite never would.

I guess the tldr of this is basically, once you do get to that point, the point you admire in others, you probably won’t even notice it. You’ll have become so comfortable in your relationship that you too will be surprised when someone else mentions how nice it seems.

Because it is nice, I love Lucifer. But it’s not a fantasy, it isn’t all positive and it isn’t all easy. But what you’re observing is true. It is definitely worth it. There is no cure to the feeling you’re feeling except continuing to grow, not in spite of your fear but because of it.

#pagan #paganism #witchcraft #lucifer devotee #lucifer deity #demonology #theistic luciferianism #demonolatry #deity witchcraft #deity work #occultism #luciferian witch

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