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desigal-26 · 16 days ago

Note

btw bless the anon that requested the Billy Russo fic I'm on my knees that was so good!!

could you write about how the f1 drivers would react to reader calling them "meri jaan" without realise she said it? or maybe the reader was talking on the phone with someone and says something like "wo toh meri jaan hai" and they overhear it?

- 🦚

I hope you don’t mind that I used both the situations—three drivers one situation. Also, I kind of went over the board for everyone—think 900+ words…for each.

Plus, I realised that I don’t know your fav driver. So, who is it? And fav team too?

Meri Jaan

Formula One Drivers x Desi!Reader

Includes: Carlos Sainz • Oscar Piastri • Charles Leclerc • Lando Norris • Lewis Hamilton • Max Verstappen

55. Carlos Sainz Jr.

The soft hum of the Bluetooth speaker blended with the gentle rustling of clothes, composing a quiet, domestic symphony that played in the background as Carlos sifted through his wardrobe—steadily unraveling both his outfit plans and his patience.

It was just a casual brunch. A laid-back affair with a few drivers and their girlfriends. Nothing high-stakes. And yet, Carlos Sainz had never subscribed to the concept of “casual” when it came to looking put together. Especially not when she would be there—his girlfriend, his amor, dressed to perfection as always.

Which is why the absence of one specific shirt—the soft, sky blue button-down he’d envisioned pairing with her outfit—felt like a personal betrayal from the universe. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration, scanning the wardrobe for the fifth time as though sheer willpower might make it appear.

It didn’t.

And so, in the face of fashion-induced crisis, he resorted to the most reliable solution he knew.

“Princesa!” (Princess) he called out, voice tinged with a dramatic sigh as he glared at the uncooperative closet.

There was a brief pause. The music stopped. A stretch of silence followed—quiet anticipation—before her voice rang out, muffled slightly from another room.

“Yes, baby?”

She sounded halfway into something—probably fixing her hair or sorting through her own outfit. In any other situation, she would have already stormed in, bare feet padding across the floor, hands on her hips, head tilted with an expression that practically said, If I find it and you didn’t, you’re sleeping in the car tonight.

And he knew, with bone-deep certainty, she would find it.

“I can’t find my blue shirt,” he called out, the edge of desperation creeping into his voice as he took a step back, arms falling to his sides in exasperation. His eyes scanned the wardrobe for what felt like the sixth time—fruitlessly. The pale cotton shirt, the one that would’ve matched her outfit perfectly, had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. Or at least off the hangers.

“It’s there in the wardrobe only,” she called back, her voice slightly strained, followed by a muted thump. Carlos winced instinctively. She was probably mid-battle with a zipper or trying to wrangle her curling iron, likely having bumped into the dresser or the foot of the bed—something she’d done more times than either of them cared to admit.

“It’s not,” he huffed, lips jutting into a pout like a petulant child—not that she could see it, but he made the face anyway. A soft scowl, a furrowed brow, the full dramatics of a man who had officially lost to his own closet.

“Meri jaan, it’s there only. Check between your linen shirts.”

He froze.

It wasn’t the instruction that stopped him—it was the way she said it. Meri jaan. The foreign syllables wrapped around him like a silk ribbon, gentle and grounding. Even through the wall, her voice carried the warmth of affection, cutting clean through the wardrobe-induced chaos in his mind. Just like that, the stress slipped from his shoulders.

A small smile tugged at his lips. He blinked, refocused, and reached for the cluster of linen shirts.

And there it was.

Nestled innocently between his white button-down and a grey polo he’d shoved there in a hurry last week. The sky blue shirt, soft and smug in its hiding place, as though it had been watching his meltdown in silent amusement.

Carlos let out a breath—half relief, half reluctant amusement—as his fingers closed around the shirt’s familiar fabric. Of course she was right. She was always right when it came to his wardrobe, no matter how chaotic or disorganized he swore it wasn’t.

He pulled the shirt free, smoothing it out as a quiet smile crept back onto his face. The crisis had passed, but something else lingered in the air—something softer.

Meri jaan.

He mouthed the words to himself, tasting them like a secret. He wasn’t entirely sure he understood every nuance, but he knew enough. My life. Or my love. Something that meant everything, wrapped in two simple words. Spoken so casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, between them, it was.

Still holding the shirt in one hand, he walked out of the closet and into the bedroom, leaning against the doorway to find her exactly how he pictured—back to him, one hand tugging the zipper of her dress upward with a slight struggle, her brow furrowed in the mirror.

“You knew exactly where it was,” he said, voice warm, with a soft lilt of accusation.

She glanced at him through the mirror, catching his eyes with a knowing smirk. “Obviously.”

“And you called me meri jaan,” he added, a little quieter now, like he was still rolling it around in his head.

That made her pause. Just for a second. Then she turned toward him, arching a brow playfully. “What about it?”

“I liked it,” he said, smile spreading now, slow and sincere. “You don’t say it often.”

Her expression softened, and she walked up to him, still trying to manage the zipper at her back. “Well… maybe I should start,” she said, and then added with a teasing glint, “Especially if it helps you find your clothes without throwing a tantrum.”

He gave a small laugh, eyes dropping to her half-zipped dress. “Come here. Let me help.”

She turned, and he stepped closer, setting the shirt aside as his fingers gently pulled the zipper up, slow and careful. There was something intimate in the way they stood—no rush, no noise, just the quiet hum of love stitched into ordinary moments.

As he smoothed the fabric over her shoulders, he leaned in, pressing a light kiss behind her ear.

“Meri princesa,” (my princess) he whispered, voice barely above a breath.

She smiled, eyes meeting his in the mirror. “You’re getting good at that.”

“Learning from the best.”

81. Oscar Piastri

The cool blast of air conditioning was the only reprieve from the thick, humid Australian afternoon as Oscar stepped back into his house, gym bag slung over one shoulder. The sudden contrast between the sticky heat outside and the crisp calm indoors made his muscles relax instantly. The silence wrapped around him like a comforter—familiar, still, and peaceful.

Only, it wasn’t complete silence.

From down the hallway, he could hear the gentle hum of a voice, soft and melodic, drifting from the guest bedroom—the one currently occupied by her. His girlfriend. The warmth in his chest stirred instinctively at the sound. The rest of the house was quiet; his family had flown off to Bora Bora for a little escape from routine life, a much-deserved vacation. But Oscar had chosen to stay back. After a year spent pinballing between racetracks, airports, and time zones, the thought of more travel—no matter how beautiful—felt exhausting. He needed stillness. Familiar walls. A soft bed. Her.

They could’ve gone somewhere peaceful together—he would’ve said yes to that in a heartbeat. But here, in the quiet corners of his childhood home, with her around, was just as perfect.

He padded toward the room, intending to knock lightly, let her know he was back from the gym. Maybe talk about dinner—cook something, or just fall into the age-old comfort of takeaway and a movie.

But then, he paused.

Her voice floated through the slightly ajar door. She was on the phone, chatting in Hindi—her other language. One he didn’t understand beyond the occasional phrase or nickname she’d tossed his way. Normally, he would’ve walked away, respecting her privacy.

But then he heard it.

“Woh toh meri jaan hai.”

The words caught him off guard—not in volume, but in weight. He didn’t understand them fully, but his heart did. Somehow, instinctively, his breath hitched. His steps faltered. It felt like his chest was suddenly too full of something warm and weightless at once.

He didn’t need a translation. He knew she was talking about him.

There was a rhythm to the words, a softness in the way she said them—as if every syllable carried something sacred. A smile ghosted his lips, unbidden. He stood there for a moment longer, letting her voice wash over him like music from a memory he hadn’t lived yet.

She said it so simply, so sincerely. And somehow, in a language he barely knew, she’d told him the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

Oscar lingered just outside the door for a few more seconds, her voice a comforting melody wrapping around him. He didn’t understand the details of the conversation—something about a cousin’s wedding, he thought—but it didn’t matter. He’d heard his part. And that was enough to send his heart into a quiet freefall.

A moment later, her laughter filtered out—bright, unfiltered, the kind that made his chest ache in the best way. That was his cue.

He gave the door a light knock with his knuckles and pushed it open, careful not to startle her.

She was sprawled across the bed, barefoot and glowing from the warm afternoon light, phone pressed to her ear and a notebook open beside her. She looked up, surprised at first—then softened into a smile that always made him feel like he’d just come home.

“I’ll call you later, okay?” she said into the phone, eyes still on him. “Yeah… okay. Bye.”

She ended the call and set her phone aside. “Hey,” she said, sitting up and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re back.”

“I am,” Oscar replied, still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a lopsided smile playing at his lips. “Good chat?”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, immediately catching the tone. “Yes…? Why?”

He shrugged with feigned casualness, stepping into the room. “Oh, nothing. Just heard a few words in Hindi on my way past. Something about… meri jaan?”

She froze.

Then blinked.

Then visibly fought the urge to cover her face. “You understood that?”

“No idea what it means,” he said, grinning now, “but judging by the way you said it—and the fact you were smiling right after—I’m going to assume it was about me. And that it was good.”

She buried her face in her hands. “Oh my god.”

He laughed, crossing the room in a few steps and sitting beside her on the bed. “So?” he pressed, nudging her shoulder with his. “What does it mean? Don’t make me Google it.”

She peeked at him from between her fingers, still flushed. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

She dropped her hands with a sigh, but there was affection in every line of her expression. “It means…” She hesitated, then looked him square in the eyes. “He is my life.”

Oscar went quiet.

For a heartbeat. Maybe two.

Then he let out a soft breath, the teasing slipping away, replaced by something softer, deeper.

“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me,” he said, voice low. “Even if I needed subtitles.”

She laughed again, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. “Well, consider it your official bilingual love declaration.”

He smiled into her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Say it again,” he whispered.

She leaned back just enough to meet his eyes, her voice tender and sure as she repeated, “Tum toh meri jaan ho.” (You’re my life.)

And this time, he didn’t need a translation. He felt every word in his bones.

16. Charles Leclerc

Monaco was unusually quiet for once.

Not in the literal sense—there was still the distant hum of boats in the harbour and the occasional rev of a scooter outside Charles’ apartment—but inside the sunlit kitchen, there was a softness that didn’t often exist in their lives. It was just the two of them, barefoot and comfortably messy. She stood by the stove, stirring something that smelled suspiciously like home to her, while Charles leaned against the counter, watching her with an expression that hovered between fascination and mild confusion.

“Okay,” he said slowly, eyeing the pot. “So, let me get this straight. It’s not a curry. It’s not a stew. It’s not soup. But it has… all the spices in the universe and smells like I might fall in love with it.”

She grinned without looking at him. “It’s khichdi, Charles. Comfort food. The kind you make when you’ve had a long day or you’re sick or you just need a hug from your plate.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is this your way of saying I should be emotionally prepared?”

“It’s my way of saying, trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

Charles let out a laugh, the warm, soft one that only she seemed to get from him these days. He walked over to the stove, snaking his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder, peeking into the pot like it held the secrets of the universe.

“It smells like you,” he murmured.

She snorted. “What, like spices and pressure?”

“No,” he said, grinning. “Like warmth. And home.”

That made her pause. The spoon in her hand slowed, and her eyes flicked to him briefly. “You’re getting awfully poetic today, Monsieur Leclerc.”

“I just know good things when I smell them,” he teased, pressing a soft kiss to her jaw before pulling back and reaching for the plates on the shelf.

She watched him with a quiet fondness as he set the table—still shirtless from the morning workout, hair tousled, skin flushed from the steam of the kitchen. There was something about Charles when he was like this: undistracted, grounded, entirely hers in the moment.

She ladled the steaming khichdi into bowls and carried them over to the table. Charles sat down, eagerly pulling the bowl closer and eyeing it with the kind of curiosity he reserved for a new car setup or a Monaco strategy meeting.

She sat across from him, amused. “Okay, moment of truth.”

Charles took the first bite and his eyes widened slightly. He chewed slowly, nodding, then pointed his spoon at her.

“This,” he said, mouth half-full, “is incredible. I feel like you’ve healed all the childhood trauma I didn’t know I had.”

She burst out laughing, nearly spilling her own bowl. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You don’t understand,” he insisted, pointing to the bowl. “This is better than anything I’ve eaten in Italy. Don’t tell my mother.”

She shook her head, grinning. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

They ate quietly for a few minutes after that, the kind of silence that came easy—comfortable, lived-in. And then, as he reached over to steal a piece of mango pickle from her plate, she swatted his hand without thinking.

“Arrey! That’s mine, meri jaan—don’t touch!”

It came out so naturally, so quickly, that she didn’t even register it at first. Not until she saw him freeze mid-motion, his eyes locking with hers across the table, confused at first… then slowly, disbelievingly, smiling.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, voice soft.

Her stomach dropped. Her spoon clattered gently against the bowl.

“Oh God,” she muttered, hand flying to her face. “Did I just—? No, no no—forget it. It just slipped out.”

But Charles was already grinning like she’d handed him pole position in Monaco on a silver platter.

“Meri jaan,” he repeated, testing the words on his tongue like they were something sacred. “That means something like… my life, right?”

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Yes, fine, it does, but I didn’t mean to say it, it just—slipped, okay? It’s just something we say.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, eyes dancing.

“So… you accidentally called me your life?”

“You are impossible,” she muttered, cheeks burning.

“And you’re adorable,” he replied, still grinning like a child with a secret. “Say it again.”

“No.”

“Come onnnn, meri jaan,” he said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.

She choked on her laugh. “Charles!”

“What?” he asked innocently. “I’m just saying it back. I think it’s romantic. Very Bollywood. Very dramatic. Very us.”

She stared at him for a moment, fighting back a smile. “You’re going to bring this up forever, aren’t you?”

“Oh, forever,” he nodded solemnly. “Every time you scold me. Every time I steal your food. Every time I beat you at Mario Kart. I will remind you that once, in a moment of passion, you called me your life.”

She laughed again, shaking her head as he reached across the table to hold her hand, thumb tracing slow circles over her knuckles.

“But really,” he added, voice softer now, “I loved it.”

She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his—and in them, that same expression she’d seen the first night she’d told him she loved him. Open. Honest. A little awestruck.

“Well then,” she murmured, lacing her fingers through his, “get used to it, meri jaan.”

And the way his smile bloomed after that?

It made her wonder if maybe he had known all along, even before she did.

04. Lando Norris

The rain tapped lightly against the windows of their London flat, the kind of drizzle that blurred the edges of the skyline but made everything inside feel warmer, cozier. A candle flickered on the coffee table, its faint scent of vanilla and sandalwood weaving through the apartment, mingling with the aroma of the chai she’d made earlier.

Lando was in the next room, gaming headset off, eyes fixed on his laptop as he flipped through something on the simulator software—half working, half distracted. Her voice floated in from the living room, lilting and musical, and though she was speaking in Hindi, a language still foreign to him in many ways, the rhythm of it was comforting. Familiar.

He loved hearing her speak in her native tongue. It was different from the world he was so used to—louder, warmer, more poetic somehow. And when she was on the phone with her friends or family, it came out of her like second nature. Like water. Sometimes fast, sometimes soft, always full of emotion.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, not really. But when he heard her laugh—the one that was deeper, more carefree than usual—he paused his work, curious. He leaned back slightly, earbuds still in his hands, listening.

“Arey yaar, stop it,” she said playfully to whoever was on the other end. “I’m serious! He’s so annoying sometimes, you know? But what can I do…”

There was a pause. A beat of silence filled with the static hum of a call.

And then she said it.

“Woh toh meri jaan hai.”

The words were soft. Almost whispered. But Lando heard them clearly.

He froze.

The sentence echoed in his head, though the meaning took a second to register. He’d heard her say that word before—jaan. Once when she was scrolling through an Instagram comment thread, once when she was watching a movie with subtitles on. He remembered asking about it then.

“What does jaan mean?”

She’d smiled and said, “It means life. But not in the medical way. Like… someone who is your life. A really deep kind of love.”

And now… she’d said it about him.

Lando sat there, blinking, heart skipping a beat he hadn’t seen coming.

She came into the room a few moments later, still on the phone, cradling a mug in one hand and tucking her hair behind her ear with the other. She was dressed in one of his hoodies and a pair of fluffy socks, looking entirely too soft and too beautiful for his poor heart to handle.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later,” she said, lowering her voice a bit. “Tell Masi I said hi… okay, bye.”

She ended the call and looked up, only then noticing his slightly stunned expression.

“What?” she asked, a little amused, a little wary. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He tilted his head. “You said something.”

She blinked. “Okay… I say a lot of things. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“On the phone,” Lando said, standing up and walking toward her. “You were talking about me, weren’t you?”

Her eyes widened just slightly. “I… maybe. Why?”

He stopped in front of her, close enough to reach out and steal the mug from her hands. He took a sip of the spiced tea she made so much better than he ever could, then looked at her over the rim.

“Woh toh meri jaan hai,” he repeated, carefully, mimicking her pronunciation.

Her mouth parted slightly. “Oh.”

Lando grinned. “Oh?”

“I didn’t think you’d hear that.”

“Well, I did.” His voice dropped slightly, the teasing still there but gentler now. “So… you think I’m your jaan?”

She looked down, cheeks warming, caught somewhere between embarrassment and vulnerability. “It just slipped out. I didn’t plan on saying it, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s why it meant even more.”

She looked up at him again, eyes flickering with something open, something raw. “It’s… kind of a big deal in my language,” she admitted. “You don’t just throw that word around. It means someone who’s a part of you. Someone you’d do anything for. Someone who feels like home.”

Lando’s expression shifted then—his teasing smile giving way to something quieter, more reverent.

“I figured it wasn’t casual,” he said, setting the mug down on the side table before gently tugging her into his arms. She came easily, naturally, her head fitting perfectly under his chin.

“I think about that sometimes,” he murmured, his lips brushing her hair. “How you grew up with all this beautiful language for things we barely know how to say in English.”

She smiled against his chest. “You’re doing fine.”

“I like it, you know,” he said. “How you say things without knowing I’m listening. Like it’s just the truth, unfiltered.”

“I didn’t mean to say it in front of you,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he chuckled, pulling back to tilt her face up gently. “But I’m glad you did.”

He brushed a thumb along her cheek and said, slowly, like he was testing each word for weight and balance, “Tu bhi meri jaan hai.” (You’re my life too.)

Her eyes widened, a startled laugh escaping her lips. “Lando—”

“I practiced,” he interrupted proudly. “Googled it weeks ago. Saved it for a dramatic reveal, but you beat me to it.”

She shook her head, face flushed, heart full. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” she whispered. “Meri jaan.”

And he kissed her then—slow and sure—as the rain continued tapping on the windows and the scent of chai lingered in the air, anchoring them in a moment that felt entirely, quietly perfect.

44. Lewis Hamilton

The soft hum of the espresso machine filled the open-plan kitchen, mingling with the smell of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon-dusted toast. Outside, London’s morning fog still clung to the windowpanes, but inside Lewis’ townhouse, everything was warm: the air, the lighting, and most of all, the company.

She stood by the counter in one of his oversized T-shirts—one he’d “accidentally” left in her closet months ago—hair a little wild from sleep, humming something under her breath in Hindi as she plated their breakfast.

Lewis sat at the table, still waking up, his curls tied back with a silk scarf she’d brought him from Delhi. The air between them was lazy and intimate in a way that didn’t need filling. He scrolled aimlessly through his phone, but his eyes kept drifting to her.

She didn’t even realize he was watching when she turned to place his plate in front of him and murmured under her breath, “Here you go, meri jaan. Eat before it gets cold.”

He froze.

It wasn’t even a dramatic moment. She didn’t say it like it was a grand confession. She said it the way someone might say baby or love—absently, casually, wrapped in morning fog and the smell of toast.

But Lewis felt it. Like the words had a weight. Like they hit some part of him that still surprised him after all these years.

“Meri… jaan?” he repeated slowly, tasting the unfamiliar syllables.

She stiffened instantly.

Shit.

Her head snapped up to look at him, eyes wide. “I—I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“But you did,” he said softly, a slow grin creeping onto his face. “You called me something.”

Her cheeks warmed. “It’s not a big deal.”

He set his fork down and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It sounds like a big deal.”

She hesitated. “It kind of is, yeah.”

His brow lifted slightly, interest piqued. “So… tell me what it means.”

She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, debating whether to downplay it or just admit the truth.

“It means…” she began, eyes flicking to his, “it literally means my life. But that’s not really the way we use it. It’s more like… someone you love deeply. Someone who’s close to your heart. Like a soulmate, almost.”

Lewis didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her.

The room went quiet, and the weight of her words settled between them—soft, but undeniably present.

“So, you said that about me,” he murmured, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Without thinking.”

“I didn’t mean to. I was just—” She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “It slipped out.”

He stood then, slowly, like he was stepping into something delicate. Walked around the table and came to stand in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head to look up at him.

“You know,” he said, voice low and steady, “you’ve got a habit of saying the most beautiful things when you’re not thinking.”

Her eyes searched his, unsure of what he was feeling.

“You’re not weirded out?” she asked quietly.

“Why would I be?” he asked, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You said something that came straight from your heart. What could be more real than that?”

She smiled, almost shyly. “It’s just… I don’t throw that word around. Not even in Hindi. And I didn’t want to scare you off with all my intensity before you’d even finished your toast.”

He laughed, pulling her into his chest with a warmth that radiated straight through her skin.

“I drive at 300 kilometers an hour for a living,” he murmured into her hair. “You think a little intensity is gonna scare me?”

She laughed into his chest, the sound muffled and giddy.

“I like that you said it,” he continued, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Even if you didn’t mean to. Even if it scared you a little.”

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with playful eyes. “So what, now you’re going to go around calling me that too?”

His smile turned mischievous. “I might. What was it again?”

She shook her head. “You’re going to butcher the pronunciation.”

“Meri jaan,” he repeated carefully, drawing out each syllable.

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Okay, that was actually… not bad.”

He beamed. “I’ve been listening. You say a lot more than you realize.”

“Oh God,” she groaned. “How many embarrassing things have I said in Hindi thinking you didn’t understand?”

“More than I’ll ever tell you,” he said, grinning. “But I remember this one.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. “Of course you do.”

He kissed her then—soft and slow and grounding. A kiss that felt like an unspoken promise.

When they broke apart, he murmured against her lips, “You’re my life too, you know. Even if I say it in English.”

She laughed. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m also lucky I’ve got a girlfriend who calls me her jaan before breakfast.”

She shook her head, exasperated and entirely in love. “That’s it. I’m switching to French. You’ll never know what I’m saying.”

He pulled her closer. “Doesn’t matter what language you use. I’ll always hear you.”

01. Max Verstappen

The morning sun had barely crested over the Monaco skyline, casting golden stripes across the sleek marble floors of Max’s penthouse. The Mediterranean glittered in the distance, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows, and the soft sounds of waves mingled with the low hum of a passing yacht.

Max was still in bed, half-awake, hair tousled and expression lazy. The bed was warm, but colder without her in it. She had slipped out an hour ago, muttering something about a Zoom call with her cousin in Mumbai and needing to be “presentable.” He’d grunted something unintelligible and buried his face in her pillow, still smelling faintly of jasmine and whatever fancy leave-in conditioner she always insisted was “essential.”

Now, as the silence gave way to the soft lilt of her voice from the living room, Max blinked his eyes open fully. She was on the phone, chatting in Hindi—her cadence quick, animated, and full of emotion. He couldn’t understand most of it. But he liked the sound of it. It was rhythmic, almost melodic, like a song only her people knew the lyrics to.

Max sat up, stretching lazily, but didn’t leave the bedroom. He didn’t want to interrupt her. Not yet. But then he heard it—just one sentence that made him freeze mid-stretch.

“Woh toh meri jaan hai.”

His brows furrowed slightly. He didn’t speak Hindi, but he wasn’t clueless either. He’d picked up a few things over the months—thanks to her rapid WhatsApp voice notes and endless family FaceTimes. He remembered that word. Jaan.

She had once explained it to him, offhandedly, while they were watching a Bollywood movie.

“It means ‘life,’” she’d said, curled up next to him on the couch. “But not, like, heartbeat-and-organs life. More like… someone who is your life. A term of deep love.”

He hadn’t thought about it much at the time. But now?

She’d said it like she meant it. And even if it wasn’t directed at him in the moment, some part of him knew. She was talking about him.

He waited a few moments longer. Her voice rose with a laugh, then softened again. Then came the sound of slippers padding down the hallway.

“Max?” she called gently, pushing open the bedroom door with one hand while cradling her phone in the other. “You’re up?”

He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on her. She looked adorable—dressed in one of his oversized Red Bull T-shirts, her hair up in a lazy bun. Her eyes were still sleep-warm, glowing from the morning light.

“Good morning,” she said softly, walking over to him and kissing his forehead. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” he said, voice gravelly with sleep. “You were talking to your cousin?”

She nodded, flopping down beside him. “Yeah. It’s her wedding next month. She was stressing about flowers and colours and lehengas.”

“Mmm,” Max murmured, stretching an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “You said something. On the phone.”

Her body stiffened just slightly. “Did I?”

He turned to look at her, brow raised, blue eyes far too observant for her liking. “You called someone meri jaan.”

She blinked. “You understood that?”

“You explained it once,” he said. “I remember. It means something like… my life?”

Her cheeks flushed, caught somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. “Yeah. That’s what it means.”

Max tilted his head, now fully curious. “So… who’s your jaan, then?”

She groaned, burying her face into his shoulder. “I knew this would come back to bite me.”

“So it was me?” he asked, voice tinged with amusement now.

She peeked up at him, mock-glare in place. “Who else would it be?”

He smirked. “I don’t know. Maybe that actor you always simp over. The one with the jawline and the motorcycles.”

She burst out laughing. “Please. I’d call him hot, but I wouldn’t call him meri jaan.”

Max grinned. “So… it’s me, then.”

“Yes,” she said, rolling her eyes affectionately. “It’s you. You’re my jaan.”

The teasing in his expression softened at her words. “You say that like it’s something serious.”

“It is something serious,” she replied, her voice gentle now. “We don’t use that word lightly. It’s reserved for someone you really love. Someone you… see your future with.”

He fell quiet.

Not uncomfortable silence, but the kind that settled deep and full between two people who understood the weight of a moment.

“I like that you said it,” he murmured eventually, his thumb rubbing soft circles along her hip. “Even if I wasn’t supposed to hear it.”

She smiled, threading her fingers through his. “Sometimes the most honest things come out when you don’t plan them.”

“Say it again,” he said.

“What?”

“Say it again. The way you did on the phone.”

She rolled her eyes but gave in, leaning in closer so that her lips brushed his jaw.

“Woh toh meri jaan hai.”

His hand tightened around hers.

“I don’t speak Hindi,” he said, voice low, “but that might be my favourite sentence in any language.”

She laughed, her nose brushing his as she whispered, “Want me to teach you how to say it back?”

He nodded. “Only if you promise not to laugh.”

She grinned. “I’ll try my best.”

She repeated it slowly for him, syllable by syllable, until he said it—clumsily but sincerely.

“Tu meri jaan hai.”

“Close enough,” she whispered, heart already melting.

He kissed her then, warm and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to learn her language, her culture, her heart.

Because she wasn’t just his jaan.

She was his home.

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glaciergore · 19 days ago

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it's crushing how silna's arc ends in exile. that crozier only learns her name the last time he sees her, that he never calls her by it until after she's already gone. that he chooses his own exile, repentant, yet in her place, while silna is banished for his (and the other men's) actions. she has spent the narrative with her own battles — of grief, of kidnapping, of unwanted responsibilities and failing to live up to them in the eyes of others; of trying to assist people that murder her own, blame and dehumanise her, brand her with an exotic title pushed upon her for that same grief — and it ends with her displacement.

then there's the killing of tuunbaq itself and how that represents a severance from her heritage and culture. not only for its significance to the community, or by its effect of getting her banished from it, but, since tuunbaq was connected to her father as shaman, in a way she's also losing part of what's left of her connection to him. all this after he was already disgraced by being denied a dignified death on the ice or given funerary rites by his daughter, according to netsilik tradition.

attacked, silenced, blamed, and finally displaced. erased, in some ways. of course, myths of a 'vanishing' people are also a colonialist narrative, portraying the disappearance of both them and their ways of life as inevitable, and it's worth saying that inuit representation in the terror doesn't subscribe to this. but, silna's individual story is one of tragedy, in line with the series' tone. she has agency, approaches the ships and their people with some curiosity, and does all that she's able to fulfil her role as shaman. in the end, none of that is enough to protect her from an inherently destructive imperial presence; one that separates her from her community and permanently alters her way of life.

so that last shot, crozier sitting with the child asleep against him, leaves an appropriately bitter taste. it isn't just sad or eerie for what we've witnessed throughout the show, it's uncomfortable. its visually peaceful (or mournful) nature is undermined by how disjunct crozier's presence in the shot feels. like a perfect picture from a documentary photographer — except something's there that shouldn't be. and something that should, isn't.

#always lovely to see more silna discussion so anyone w/ additional points (or corrections!) please add away #but yeah just finished another rewatch & I'm always surprised at how unsettling I find that final shot #the terror 2018 #the terror amc #terrorposting #silna the terror #silna #nive nielsen

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kittenan2 · 2 months ago

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Tuna Temptress

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader (Cursed Princess!Reader) Genre: Fantasy, Romantic Comedy, Smut, Crack, Fluff Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, accidental marriage, magical chaos, nudity, bickering, dirty talk, playful dominance, oral (f & m receiving), riding, magical quirks during sex (e.g., purring, water bursts), mild exhibitionism (beach scene), language, alcohol mention, Jin being a flustered himbo, Reader being a sassy ex-tuna, mild jealousy. Kinks: Accidental arousal, playful teasing, magical sex consequences, “fish wife” energy, light dom/sub dynamics, intense foreplay, praise. Word Count: ~3k Summary: You’re a sea princess cursed to live as a tuna until someone marries you for love. Enter Kim Seokjin, a food vlogger who jokingly proposes to you on a livestream. The curse breaks, you’re human (and naked) in his bathtub, and now you’re his accidental wife. Chaos, bickering, and steamy love ensue as you navigate land life and your new “marriage.”

Kim Seokjin was not having a great day. His fishing vlog was bombing, his subscribers were roasting his new haircut (“You look like a sexy alpaca,” one comment read), and the fish weren’t biting. Desperate for content, he stood on the pier, holding up a massive bluefin tuna he’d barely managed to reel in after an hour of cursing.

“This,” Jin declared to his livestream, winking at the camera, “is the sexiest sea sausage you’ll ever see. Look at that thicc tail. I’m in love.” The chat exploded with laughing emojis and “JIN NO” comments. On a dare from a subscriber promising a $50 donation, he doubled down. “You know what? I’m gonna marry this fish. Will you, Madame Tuna, take me as your lawfully wedded husband?”

The crowd roared. Jin smirked, expecting viral fame. What he didn’t expect was the sky to crack open like a bad CGI movie. Lightning flashed, the wind howled, and the tuna—you—vanished in a swirl of glittery mist. The livestream cut out. The chat went wild: “DID JIN JUST SUMMON A DEMON?”

Jin stumbled home, convinced he’d hallucinated from too much sun and cheap beer. “I need a nap and therapy,” he muttered, kicking off his sandals.

That night, Jin was mid-lotion routine—shirtless, humming a song, looking like a snack—when he heard a splash from his bathroom. “Did I leave the tap on?” he grumbled, grabbing a towel. He pushed open the door and froze.

There you were. A woman. Naked. Glistening. Sitting in his bathtub, eating his lavender conditioner like it was yogurt. Your hair was a wild tangle of sea-salted waves, your eyes wide and otherworldly, and your skin shimmered faintly, like you’d been dipped in pearl dust. You were also, very obviously, not a fish.

“WHAT THE FU—” Jin screamed, throwing the towel at you. It landed on your head. You blinked, unfazed, and kept licking the conditioner bottle. He slipped on a wet tile, flailing. “WHO ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU EATING MY HAIR PRODUCTS?”

You tilted your head, voice regal but confused. “Where’s my kingdom? And why is this potion so bitter?” You spat out a glob of conditioner, frowning. “Mortal alchemy is disgusting.”

Jin clutched the doorframe, heart racing. “Mortal? Kingdom? Lady, this is my apartment! How did you get in here?”

You stood, water cascading down your body, and Jin’s brain short-circuited. He averted his eyes, face redder than a lobster. “Towel! Use the towel!” he yelped.

You ignored him, stepping out of the tub with the grace of a queen, conditioner bottle still in hand. “You broke my curse, human. You proposed. I am your wife.”

Jin choked. “My WHAT?”

You stepped closer, and he backed into the sink, knocking over a soap dispenser. You sniffed him, then licked a stripe of salt off his neck, your tongue warm and startlingly soft. “You taste like the sea,” you murmured approvingly.

Jin squeaked, shoving you back. “NO LICKING! I’m calling the cops!”

He grabbed his phone, but it sparked and transformed into a wriggling trout. He dropped it, screaming again. “WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “The curse binds us. You cannot escape your vow. I am Y/N, Princess of the Cerulean Depths, cursed to swim as a tuna until a mortal wed me for love. You said the words. Now, I am human. And yours.”

Jin slid down the wall, head in hands. “I proposed to a fish. For clout. This is my life now.”

The next morning, Jin woke up praying it was a dream. No such luck. You were sprawled across his bed, wearing his oversized Gucci hoodie (and nothing else), munching on a bag of sea salt chips you’d raided from his pantry. “These are acceptable,” you declared, crumbs dusting your chin like edible glitter.

Jin groaned, rubbing his temples. “You can’t just eat my snacks and claim my bed, Y/N.”

You patted the mattress with a smug grin. “Our bed, husband. Join me. You’re warm.” Your tone was commanding, but your eyes sparkled with curiosity, making Jin’s stomach do a weird flip.

“I’m not your husband!” he snapped, yanking the blanket off you. Big mistake. The hoodie rode up, revealing way too much thigh, and he yeeted the blanket back, face flaming. “Put on pants! This is a civilized household!”

You scoffed, licking salt off your fingers. “Pants are cages for my fins... uh... legs. In my kingdom, we swim free.” You stretched, the hoodie slipping to expose a shoulder, and Jin nearly choked on his own tongue.

“Civilization isn’t optional!” he barked, storming to his dresser. He threw a pair of sweatpants at you. “Wear these, or I’m locking you in the bathroom.”

You caught the pants, sniffed them, and wrinkled your nose. “They smell like... regret. Did you wear these to cry over lost dreams?”

Jin’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? These are clean! And I don’t cry!”

You smirked, tossing the pants back. “Liar. I saw you sniffle at that glowing box (TV you meant) last night. The one with the sad fish.”

“That was Finding Nemo, and I had allergies!” he yelled, turning red. “Get dressed, or I’m throwing you into sea again!”

You relented, slipping on the sweatpants—backwards. The drawstring dangled over your butt, and Jin facepalmed. “You’re a walking disaster.”

Teaching you human life was like teaching a shark to knit. Jin tried, but you were a regal, stubborn ex-tuna with a knack for chaos.

Jin dragged you to his closet, desperate to cover you up before his neighbors called the cops. “Pick something normal,” he said, pointing to jeans.

You ignored him, grabbing a sparkly sequined vest and tying it around your waist like a skirt. “This is royal,” you declared, striking a pose. Jin pinched his nose. “That’s my club vest! You look like a disco ball ran away from home!” You twirled, sequins catching the light. Secretly, he thought you looked weirdly stunning, but he’d rather eat sand than admit it. He tossed you a proper shorts, muttering about “keeping you safe from creeps,” and later hid his flashiest clothes in a locked suitcase, worried you’d parade around town in a feather boa.

Once, Jin made ramyeon, thinking it’d be foolproof. You stared at the chopsticks like they were alien probes. “Why not eat with hands?” you asked, diving in with both fists. Broth splattered the walls, your face, and Jin’s favorite hoodie. He shrieked, “Use the sticks, you savage!”

You flicked a noodle at his forehead, where it stuck like a slimy third eye. “In my kingdom, we sip from shells!” you huffed. Jin wiped the noodle off, muttering, “Your kingdom sounds like a soup warzone.” He showed you how to use chopsticks, guiding your hands with surprising patience, and later stocked the pantry with seaweed snacks after noticing you devoured them.

Jin handed you his phone. “This is how we communicate.” You poked it, and it blared “Baby Shark” at ear-splitting volume, looping like a cursed siren song. Jin yeeted it onto the couch, screaming, “WHY IS THAT YOUR SUPERPOWER?” You shrugged, grinning. “It sings of the sea.”

One day, you found his TV remote and flipped channels, landing on an adult-rated drama—with way more skin and questionable moans. A couple was tangled in bed, all heavy breathing and wandering hands. You tilted your head, fascinated. “Is this... foreplay?” you asked, pointing at the screen.

Jin, sipping coffee, sprayed it across the room. “WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT WORD?”

You pointed at the TV, unfazed. “They’re... rubbing. A lot. Is this how humans mate? Why is she screaming? Is he hurting her?”

Jin’s face was a furnace. “TURN IT OFF! You’re watching nasty stuff!” He lunged for the remote, tripping over a lamp cord and faceplanting into a cushion. You held the remote aloft, smirking. “Answer me, husband. What is foreplay? Why does it look so... slippery?”

He groaned, snatching the remote and switching to a cooking show. “You’re banned from TV! That’s not—okay, it’s part of mating, but it’s private, and you shouldn’t be watching that garbage! Stick to Pororo or something!” He was mortified, but later, he set parental locks on his streaming apps, muttering about “corrupting your fish brain.” He also noticed you hummed along to ocean-themed jingles, so he made a playlist, pretending it was for his vlog.

The bickering was endless. At the grocery store, you wielded a cucumber like a trident, shouting, “Behold, my sea scepter!” Jin yanked it away, hissing, “It’s a vegetable, not Poseidon’s pitchfork! Stop terrorizing the produce aisle!” Shoppers stared, and Jin shielded you from their gazes, muttering about “keeping you out of trouble.” You sulked, but when he slipped a bag of seaweed snacks into the cart, you beamed, hugging his arm. He froze, grumbling, “Don’t get clingy,” but didn’t pull away. You felt it—his quiet care, the way he watched you like you were precious, even if he’d never say it. He’d scold you, but his eyes softened when you laughed, and you knew he was already hooked.

By day five, Jin was unraveling. You kept “accidentally” brushing against him—your hand grazing his thigh during movie night, your breath tickling his ear when you stole his popcorn. And the licking? You did it again, swiping your tongue along his jaw while he cooked. “Still salty,” you teased. Jin dropped a spatula, yelling, “I’M NOT A SNACK!” But his dreams that night begged to differ.

By week two, Jin was losing it. You were everywhere—lounging on his couch, stealing his hoodies, leaving wet footprints everywhere because you insisted on “hydrating” by sitting in the sink. And you were flirty, in the most chaotic way.

“Seokjin,” you said one evening, perched on the kitchen counter in his apron (and nothing else), swinging your legs. “Why do humans kiss? Is it like biting, but soft?”

He dropped a spatula. “It’s... uh... affection. Or attraction. Not biting.”

You hopped down, sauntering over. “Show me.”

“Nope!” He backed into the fridge, heart pounding. “We’re not kissing. You’re a fish. I mean, ex-fish. I mean—boundaries!”

You pouted, but your eyes gleamed with mischief. “Coward. I’m your wife.”

“Stop saying that!” he groaned, but his resolve was crumbling. You were so close, smelling like sea breeze and his shampoo, and your lips looked... soft.

Then you did it again—licked his jaw, slow and deliberate. “Still salty,” you murmured, and Jin’s knees buckled.

“OKAY, FINE!” he snapped, grabbing your waist to keep you at arm’s length. “You want human lessons? Here’s one: don’t lick people unless you’re ready for consequences.”

You grinned, undeterred. “What consequences?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. “Bed. Now. Separate beds!”

That night he slept in another room, but you climbed into his bed anyway, curling against him. “For warmth,” you mumbled, already half-asleep. Jin lay there, staring at the ceiling, painfully aware of your bare legs tangled with his.

It all came to a head during a thunderstorm. The sky roared, lightning flashing like an angry god, and you, a sea princess used to the ocean’s calm depths, were terrified. You’d never heard such noise—sharp, cracking, like the world was splitting. The power went out, plunging Jin’s apartment into darkness, and you dove under the kitchen table, trembling.

“Seokjin!” you called, voice small. “The sky is dying!”

Jin, who’d been rummaging for candles, rushed over, crouching to find you curled into a ball, eyes wide with fear. “Hey, Y/N, it’s okay,” he said softly, reaching for your hand. “It’s just a storm. Loud, but harmless.”

You shook your head, clutching his wrist. “It’s angry. Like the sea gods when I was cursed. What if it takes me back?” Your voice broke, and Jin’s heart twisted. You weren’t just scared—you were reliving the moment you lost everything.

He crawled under the table, sitting beside you. “No one’s taking you,” he said firmly, pulling you close. “You’re here. With me. Safe.” His arm around you was warm, solid, and you buried your face in his chest, inhaling his scent—salt, soap, home.

The thunder boomed again, and you whimpered, clinging tighter. Jin rubbed your back, murmuring, “I got you. Just focus on me, okay?” He lit a candle, the flicker casting soft shadows, and you relaxed slightly, still pressed against him.

“Seokjin,” you whispered, looking up, your face inches from his. “I’m scared... but I trust you.”

His breath hitched. Your vulnerability, your closeness—it undid him. “Y/N, I—” He stopped, then admitted, “I wanted you too. Not just for the curse. I saw you, even as a tuna, and thought... ‘This fish has attitude.’”

You laughed, a shaky sound, and kissed him. It was clumsy, desperate, tasting of salt and fear. Jin froze, then kissed back, hands sliding into your hair. The room sparked—literally. A candle flared, and the couch cushions turned into a pile of seaweed.

You pulled back, giggling. “Oops. Magic. My magic is unstable when I am horny.”

Jin stared, breathless. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Things escalated fast. You tugged at his shirt, and he yanked it off, revealing toned abs that made you hum approvingly. “Strong mortal,” you teased, trailing fingers down his chest.

He smirked, confidence surging. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, princess.”

Jin lifted you onto the kitchen counter, the storm still raging outside, forgotten in the heat between you. Your borrowed shirt—his shirt—rode up, exposing thighs that glistened in the candlelight. He stepped between your legs, hands gripping your hips, and you gasped, a soft, needy sound that set his nerves on fire.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice rough, giving you one last out.

You nodded, eyes blazing. “I want you, Seokjin. Teach me everything.”

He kissed you again, deeper, tongue teasing yours in a slow, hungry dance. You were eager, hands roaming his shoulders, nails scraping just enough to make him groan. “Easy, tuna,” he teased, nipping your lip. “You’ll break me.”

You smirked, tugging his hair. “I’m a princess. I don’t break things. I claim them.”

That snapped his restraint. Jin slid the shirt over your head, tossing it away, and drank in the sight of you—bare, glowing, perfect. Your skin was warm, faintly salty, and when he kissed your collarbone, you purred, a dolphin-like trill that made him laugh and ache.

“Keep doing that, and I’m gonna lose it,” he warned, hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs brushing closer to your core.

“Then lose it,” you challenged, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you. You were bold, unashamed, and it drove him wild.

He kissed down your chest, slow and deliberate, savoring every gasp. When his lips closed around a sensitive peak, you arched, a burst of magic making the sink spray water like a fountain. “Sorry!” you giggled, but your hands were in his hair, urging him on.

Jin grinned against your skin. “You’re a walking disaster, and I’m obsessed.”

He knelt, kissing your stomach, your hips, then paused at your inner thighs, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses that made you squirm. You tensed, confused. “Seokjin, what are you doing?” Your voice was shaky, curious but nervous. In your kingdom, mating was straightforward—instinctive, functional. This was... new.

He looked up, eyes soft. “Just trust me, princess. I’m gonna make you feel good.”

When his lips brushed your core, you jolted, a mix of shock and heat flooding you. “That’s—not how it works!” you stammered, hands gripping the counter. His tongue flicked, slow and teasing, and you gasped, confusion melting into something else. “Oh... oh.”

Jin chuckled, the vibration making you whimper. He worked you with deliberate care, learning what made you tremble, what made you moan. You were vocal—trills, gasps, his name in a desperate chant. Your mind spun; you’d only known the mechanics of intercourse, not this... worship. Pleasure was a foreign tide, pulling you under.

When you came, it was with a cry, your body shaking. You panted, dazed, as Jin stood, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself. “Good?” he asked, smug.

You blinked, still reeling. “I... didn’t know pleasure could come in so many ways.” Your voice was awed, vulnerable.

Jin’s smirk softened into something wicked. “Oh, princess, I can show you so much more.” He kissed your nose, teasing. “Stick with me, and you’ll be ruined for anyone else.”

He lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the bedroom. The main event was chaotic, perfect. He entered you slowly, watching your face, but you were all in—eyes locked on his, hips meeting his with a primal rhythm. You purred again, a vibrating hum that made him curse and thrust harder.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs. “You’re unreal.”

You flipped him onto his back with surprising strength. “My turn, mortal.” You rode him like the sea—wild, relentless, nails digging into his chest. Another magical burst turned his lamp into a coral reef, but he was too lost in you to care.

When you both peaked, it was explosive—sparks, thunder, a flood of water soaking the bed. You collapsed on him, laughing, breathless. “I think I love being human,” you gasped.

Jin kissed your forehead, dazed. “I didn’t know sea princesses could ride like that.”

You grinned, nuzzling his chest. “I was born to swim, Jin.”

The next morning, you woke tangled in Jin’s arms, the room a wreck of seaweed, broken glass, and soggy furniture. He looked at you, soft but serious. “Y/N, what happens now? You’re free. You could go back to your kingdom.”

You traced his jaw, heart heavy. “I was cursed for being too proud to need love. I thought I was above it—above mortals, above weakness. But you... you made me want it. Want you.” You paused, swallowing. “My kingdom is gone. The curse severed my ties—my family, my throne. Returning would mean facing exile or worse. Here, I’m free to be... me. Not a princess, just Y/N. With you, I’m home.”

Jin’s eyes softened, glassy. “No one’s ever chosen me like that. Everyone expects the funny guy, the clown. But you see me.”

You kissed him, slow and tender, a promise in every brush of your lips. “You’re my husband, Seokjin. Funny, kind, mine.”

The sex that followed was different—soft, unhurried, like the tide caressing the shore. Jin held you close, his hands gentle as they traced your curves, mapping you like a treasure. He whispered your name, his voice thick with emotion, and you felt his heartbeat under your palm, steady and sure. You moved together, not chasing release but savoring each touch—his lips on your temple, your fingers in his hair, the warmth of his skin against yours. When you came, it was quiet, a shared breath, your foreheads pressed together. You didn’t break anything—just each other’s walls, letting love fill the cracks.

A month later, you and Jin stood on a beach at sunset, exchanging real vows. He’d made rings from seashells, polished to perfection, and you wore a dress of pearls and silk that made him tear up. The ceremony was small, attended by Jin’s closest friends, who’d met you a month after the bathtub incident and instantly adopted you as “Jin’s weird hot fish wife.”

Flashback

The first meeting was at Jin’s apartment, post-sex disaster, with seaweed still stuck to the couch. Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook piled in, expecting a chill hangout. Instead, they found you, wearing Jin’s oversized hoodie and boxer briefs, eating seaweed snacks like a queen.

“Who’s the model?” Jimin whispered, eyeing your legs.

“Is she... licking salt off her fingers?” Taehyung muttered, fascinated.

Jin, flustered, introduced you. “This is Y/N. She’s... uh... my wife. Long story.”

You waved regally. “Greetings, mortals. I am Y/N, Princess of the Cerulean Depths.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “She’s weird.”

“But hot,” Hoseok added, grinning.

Jungkook, munching chips, pointed. “She’s perfect for you, hyung. You’re both unhinged.”

You proved it by turning Jungkook’s soda into a fish with a flick of your wrist. He screamed, then laughed. “Okay, I love her.”

Namjoon, ever the scholar, asked about your curse. You explained, and he nodded thoughtfully. “That’s... wild. But you and Jin make sense. He needs someone to keep him on his toes.”

Jimin teased, “So, hyung, how’s married life? She turn your bed into an aquarium yet?”

Jin turned red. “Shut up, Jimin!”

You smirked, leaning into Jin. “He’s salty, but I like him that way.”

The boys roared, instantly smitten. They spent the night joking, teaching you to play Uno (you ate a wild card, thinking it was kimchi). Jimin and Hoseok, ever the flirts, couldn’t resist. Jimin winked, saying, “Y/N, if Jin ever screws up, I’m free.”

Hoseok chimed in, “Yeah, I’d treat you to the best seafood dinner.” Jin’s smile tightened, his hand resting possessively on your waist. “Keep dreaming, losers,” he said, voice light but eyes sharp. You caught the glint of jealousy and squeezed his hand, amused.

Flashback Ends

At the ceremony, the boys were in full chaos mode. Namjoon officiated, nearly dropping the rings into the sand. Yoongi played a soft piano melody on a portable keyboard, muttering, “This is too romantic.” Hoseok and Jimin threw rose petals, half of which landed in Jungkook’s hair. Taehyung kept snapping photos, yelling, “Work it, fish queen!” Jungkook, tipsy on soju, toasted, “To Jin and his tuna soulmate!”

Jin’s vows were heartfelt, with a touch of humor. “I, Kim Seokjin, take you, Y/N, ex-tuna, forever. I promise to cook you ramyeon, even when you flick noodles at me, and to love you, even when you turn my phone into a trout.”

Yours were equally you. “I, Y/N, take you, Seokjin, my salty savior. I promise to stay, to love, and to only lick you when you deserve it.”

The boys cheered, Jimin fake-sobbing into Hoseok’s shoulder.

That night, under a full moon, you pulled Jin into the shallow waves, your pearl dress discarded on the sand, leaving you bare in the silver light. The ocean lapped at your ankles as you kissed him, hungry and free, tasting salt and love. His hands roamed your back, pulling you close, his suit jacket long gone, shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest.

“Y/N,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough, “you’re glowing. Literally.”

You laughed, your skin shimmering with faint magic. “Good. Then you’ll find every inch of me.”

You pushed him onto the damp sand, waves teasing your knees, and straddled him, hands splaying over his abs. He groaned, eyes dark with want. “You’re gonna kill me, princess.”

“Not yet,” you teased, grinding against him, feeling him harden beneath you. You kissed his neck, licking a slow stripe, and he cursed, hands gripping your hips.

He flipped you, pinning you gently, the tide washing over your legs. “My turn,” he growled, kissing down your chest, lingering until you arched, gasping. The water glowed blue around you, magic humming as he kissed lower, teasing your core until you purred, a loud, vibrating trill that echoed over the waves.

“Fuck, that sound,” he groaned, returning to your lips. You fumbled with his pants, freeing him, and he entered you slowly, the ocean cradling you both. It was primal, urgent, each thrust timed with the tide, your moans blending with the crash of waves. You clawed his back, magic sparking—starfish appeared in the sand, shells glowed, the water pulsed with your rhythm.

“Seokjin,” you gasped, ��harder.” He obliged, whispering praise—“My princess, my wife, so fucking perfect”—until you shattered, your climax triggering a wave that soaked you both. He followed, groaning your name, collapsing into you.

You lay tangled, panting, the glowing water fading. Jin laughed, breathless. “God, I married a tuna.”

You kissed his nose, smirking. “And you’re hooked for life.”

Six months later, you and Jin were settled in a beachside apartment, your magic mostly under control (except when you turned his toaster into a crab during an argument). One lazy Sunday, you lounged on the couch, wearing his hoodie, teasing him as he cooked breakfast.

“Seokjin,” you said, smirking, “remember our first time? You said you’d show me more ways to feel pleasure.” You stretched, letting the hoodie ride up. “What were those ways, hmm?”

He froze, spatula in hand, ears red. “Y/N, I’m holding a hot pan. Don’t start.”

You sauntered over, wrapping your arms around him from behind. “I’m just curious, husband. You promised. Or was that all talk?”

He turned, eyes glinting. “Oh, princess, you’re playing with fire.” He set the pan down, pinning you against the counter. “Want a lesson now?”

You grinned, purring softly. “Show me.”

Breakfast burned, but neither of you cared.

A/N: Hope you’re soaked from this chaotic, spicy ride! Like, reblog, or comment if you loved Jin and his fishy soulmate. Requests open for more unhinged fics! 🐟💖

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @bebabido . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog

#seokjin fanfic #seokjin smut #jin fanfic #jin smut #bts smut #bts fanfic #jin fanfiction #bts fic #BTSFanfic #SeokjinSmut #seokjin x reader #jin x reader #bts x reader #kittenanwrites

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orphicrose · 1 year ago

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Are you still doing requests? Can I request Alastor x Wife reader who were married together alive an reunited in hell and while Alastor hates modern tech the reader grew on it and even started a life hack channel on voxtube of tricks from the 1920s and it becomes really popular and she gets sponsors and fan mail meanwhile Alastor needs Angel's help just to video chat her and one day she gets a 5 million subscriber mileage congratulations gift box (that all creators get bit hes still mad) from Vox himself

Old man and an Iphone

Requests are still open indeed.

I can definitely do my best! I’ve changed the dates around a little to better fit the technology advancements in the universe. This is set in the early 2000s

This is somewhat small, but i hope you like it.

Wattpad : TheOrphicRose :)

----------------------

Years passed like turning pages since your husband had departed from you, in the cruelest ways that anyone could imagine. A fate that wasn’t even inevitable. That singular fragile piece of metal, shot from an unknown hunter, took him away from you.

You knew who he was, you knew what he was. Knowing that you’d end up in the same temple of horror one day that he has. His sins being your sins. That brought you some peace. Knowing you’d be reunited one day. Even if it was in the worst place imaginable. Hell. That day came sooner than you’d like to admit. Leaving behind your clueless grandchildren and your own hellish spawn.

The ground below you hit rather hard, not even knowing you were falling down the rabbit hole till the bottom came right to your face. You let off a grunt in response. Your body feeling light, all of a sudden. As if the age and wrinkles had just vanished, and you were young again. Legs feeling like they could run miles, and skin, well. Your new hellish form wasn’t much of an improvement from leather skin.

Knowing for years you’d end up here, it wasn’t too difficult to take in. Accepting your sins and your fate as a part of your journey. It wasn’t so bad. There was society, and structure down here. Immortality being the only true torture.

The other torture, you had no idea where your dearest Alastor had ended up. It had been almost 70 years since you’d seen him, god knows what he looks like now. Your reunion was sudden, after all, he was a well known overlord. Yet, it was still something out of a textbook romance novel.

Over the next decade or two, you two spent every second together. Refusing to be apart again. You sharing stories about your children, grandchildren. Melting Alastor's heart like he never thought you could. There was so much catching up to do. After time, you became infatuated with the media, creating your own channel. it was called "Hellish crafts", which started with a bunch of silly tips and tricks when it comes to house work. Alastor didn't understand, but it came with a hefty income.

After becoming tenants at the misguided daughters of hells hotel, you soon began helping with advertisements. Which grew the channel even more. From random life hacks, to advertisements, to smaller channels asking you for your help to grow theirs.

"Must you film me, dear?" his hand covers his face as the camera fizzes out of focus.

"Yes! Its for Charlie. Lighten up old man" You teased him, filming the hotel lobby. He smiled at your expression, resting a hand on the small of your back as you did your craft.

"Y/n! Y/n! Another letter for you!" Niffty ran over

Alastors hand dropped, snatching the letter from the little goblin.. Eyebrows furrowed. "This is the third letter in the passed three days, sweetheart"

"What can i say, my channel is a hit" One eye was closed as the other was pressed to the run down camera that Alastor insisted you used. Still walking slowly around the hotel, trying to get a good shot. Alastor stood in his place, reading the letter. "Another delusional fan" He mumbled.

"Don't worry! i wont let the fame go to my head" You swung around with the camera, getting him in frame. The static of his aura interfered with the lens and gave your brow a small electric shock. Jolting you backwards.

"I've warned you about that" He chuckled, hand returning to your waist and pulling you closer. His other hand with the letter, raising, and a fit of flames emitted. Turning the letter into ash on the floor, which nifty didn't wait to clean up.

Life was like this for a while, constant letters. Some weird, some genuine. But you never got to read most of them, as Alastor made it his duty to send them to another realm before you could. was he jealous? maybe, he'd never care to admit it though. That was until a rather glamorous piece of paper fell through the letter box on this particular day. Stamped with Vox's logo. You got to this letter first.

"What the fuck?" Your almost angry tone alerted Alastor, whose body materialized next to yours in seconds. "What's the matter, my dear?" his eyes briefly scanned over the letter before snatching it from you.

"What is a 5 million subscriber?"

"Its the amount of people who support my channel, i honestly didn't even know it was that big." you stared up at him, waiting for some sort of outburst on his face.

"That's... " he thought for a second "Wonderful dear! Absolutely wonderful!" his arms wrapped around you in an embrace, spinning you around. When you first started the channel, with his knowledge, it was more of a way to pass the time. So, for it to be as big as it is now was quite the accomplishment. What kind of husband would he be not to support his perfect wife, he thought. Whether she was practically paying vox or not. His quarrels weren't hers.

"I believe you have some type of reward, y/n" He spoke again, putting you down and giving the letter back. His sharp nail pointed at a fine print at the bottom. 'Visit the Vee headquarters to redeem your reward'.

You both looked at each other, brows raised and a concerned look in your eyes. "I'm sure it's not important. I don't need a reward"

He looked as if he was in deep thought. Contemplating everything for a second. "You should go" "But vox is your-"

"Hush, little woman" His finger covered your lips "This is important to you darling. I trust you"

The smile on your face made his bigger, making you deserving of the little peck he placed on your lips before adjusting his posture. "On the condition that my shadow follows your every move"

"Done"

A few hours had passed since your departure, Charlie offering razzle and dazzle to escort you to the large mansion on the other side of the pentagram. It was quite the journey, considering the traffic. And it wasn't long before Alastor began to miss you, wondering if you were okay.

"Ahem" static gave Angel a brief episode of tinnitus before he swung his body on the lobby sofa, met with the lanky deer.

"Waddya want, pimp?" his attention didn't last long, his phone having far more interesting contents than the demon lurking behind him.

"I need a favor" his smile made the question seem a lot more sadistic than intended. His body swiftly moved around the sofa, standing in front of the spider now.

"If you want my soul, I got bad news for ya."

"Your soul?" He was almost confused for a second "No, i need help with this" he lifted his hand, angels phone disappearing and reappearing in the deer's grip.

"Wh- hey! Give that back" Angel leapt to his feet, reaching up and snatching it back. "Why do you want help with a phone? Aren't you like, from the dark ages?"

It took Alastor a moment to be able to admit to it. "I'd like... to call my wife"

"Awww, is someone clingy" angels teasing didn't last long before radio dials appeared in the demons eyes, radio interference filling the air as quickly as it had disappeared earlier. "Okay, okay" Angels hands flew up in surrender, Alastor returning to normal instantly. "Splended!"

It took a moment for Angel to flick through the thousands of contacts he had, before he finally reached you. Pressing the call button and handing the phone to Al. Who held it like an old grampa looking at a meme. "What do i do now?" he squinted his eyes at the device in his hand. "Just hold it" Angels voice became frustrated as he readjusted the phone in Als hand.

You had picked up the call a minute ago now, on your way back to the hotel. Being greeted to the two boys bickering. "Helloooo?" you sung out, attempting to get their attention.

"Oh. Hello my dear!" Alastor noticed to and bared his teeth in an awkward smile. "I just wanted to see how my love was doing, is all"

"How sweet. I will be back soon." You had many questions to ask when you were back with the comfort of your person.

"Do hurry"

#fanfiction #x reader #request #reqs open #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin angel dust #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction

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velvetvexations · 2 months ago

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One thing I find very stressful/upsetting about the constant refrain that trans men *must* put themselves at risk to protect transfems is there's just no real consideration that we can burn out or get hurt doing this. Who comes to protect us? I've made myself the loud angry transgender who talks back and starts fights, I step in front of my friends, I keep the aggression on me. I don't do this because it's my "duty as a trans man" I do this out of choice, because I want to protect the people I care about. But I've been doing this since I was 16. I'm nearly 30 and now disabled. And I'm expected to keep going. To keep putting myself in the crosshairs. I'm scared. I'm exhausted. I don't know which women in my life subscribe to this idea. I'm scared to find out. I dont want to roll over and let my sister's be treated like shit, but will they forgive me if I want to rest? Will they care for me when I'm shaken or hurt?

When I'm bruised and my voice is raw from arguing on my sisters's behalf, when I'm tired and in pain, would they see it as selfish if I asked them to hold my hand?

I love you anon, and your sisters will have your back, I promise. The radfem crowd will vanish and we'll keep fighting for each other like always.

#transandro phobia #discourse

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juuuuunaaaaaooooo · 3 months ago

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She's Different

Thanos x fem reader : Angst, fluff, smut, mention of drugs, using of drugs, mention of death, blood, gore. The reader is a virgin. Happy ending! English Version! THIRD POV!

Chapter 1/? : Prologue

Thanos awoke to the sound of music worthy of a military camp. He ran a hand through his purple hair and straightened. He looked around, and saw a hundred people, all dressed in the same green jogging suit, and a number. “230.” He looked down at his sweatpants and winced. He stood up and made his way to the center of the room, stretching slightly, when a door opened and masked men dressed in pink burst into the large dormitory. The one in the middle, with a square on his face, spoke. “I would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you. Everyone here will participate in six different games over six days. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize.”

After this short introduction, some participants started asking questions. To be honest, Thanos didn’t give a damn who they were, or why they were so mysterious. All he cared about was, where his shoes had gone.

“What’s with these shoes? My shoes are limited fucking edition. They’re hard to find! You going to replace them if they get ruined?” Fuck! They had also cost him a fortune.

He grunted. They’d better give it back to him intact at the end of the game. Another player protested, insisting that he needed to follow the crypto market in real time. The man in the square pressed a remote control, and a video appeared on the screen.

“Player 333, Lee Myung-gi. Age 30, used to run a YouTube channel called ‘MG Coin.’”

Thanos tilted his head to spot Player 333 in the crowd. The bastard was there too. Perfect, now he could beat the shit out of him. He was sure that he wasn’t his only victim. Maybe he’d find some allies soon. His proud smile vanished when his face appeared on the screen. He lowered his head in shame, watching the reactions around him. Seeing himself on the video and hearing the amount of his debt made him think back to that day, on the bridge. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, it was painful. Once he’d found out the final prize pool, and the giant pig, which was empty for the moment, it was time to officially signed up by signing the “contract.”

Thanos had just met player 124, Nam-su. The latter had also been MG Coin's victim. While waiting his turn, Thanos saw Nam-su approach MG Coin, who had just finished signing the paper.

“The amazing Myung-gi from MG Coin? Is that you?”

Thanos stepped out of line to join him. Player 333 took a few steps back when he saw him coming. He hadn’t even said a word to him, and this weakling was already scared... Interesting.

“Who are you?”

“You may not know me, but I know you. MG Coin. I was subscribed to your channel. And I lost a shitload of money, asshole.”

“So, did I.”

“You’ve got the wrong person.”

The little bastard dared to deny it, although his name had been mentioned loud and clear. He tried to get through, but Thanos put a firm hand on his chest to pull him back.

“I watched your content all day, every day. Now I even see you in my dreams, motherfucker.” He put his arm on his new ally’s shoulder. “Was your name Nam-su?”

“It’s Nam-gyu. From Club Pentagon.”

“Right.” He didn’t give a shit. “Thanks to you, I bonded quickly with Nam-gyu here. Because we shared the same pain.”

“What do you want from me?”

Furious that he was playing innocent, Thanos grabbed him by the back of the neck as the other players looked on in amazement. “What do you think? Give me my money.”

Myung-gi withdrew his hand, as best he could, freeing himself. “Did I force you to buy that coin?”

“You told us to bet it all, you fucker. You swore it’d shoot up. You said we’d be fucking idiots if we didn’t buy it!” He was very close to sticking one in his face.

“You are responsible for the final decision on your investment. Didn’t you hear me say that at the end? You said you watched every day.”

This time it was too much, he couldn’t hold back any longer. The big jerk was out to get him, making him look like a fool. Thanos raised his fist to punch him, but a soft voice stopped him dead in his tracks. “Technically, if you exerted any psychological pressure, you can be considered responsible.”

Thanos turned and looked at the young woman, a small smile on his lips. He slowly lowered his fist. “You see, listen to the lawyer.” She looked away, as if she regretted her intervention, but answered him anyway. “I’m not a lawyer.” Thanos’s smile widened. “Listen to the pretty, intelligent señorita.” “I didn’t force them to invest.” She approached slowly. “If in each of your videos, you push people to believe you by calling them idiots. By hearing it repeatedly again, they’ll trust you, even if they have their doubts.” Myung-gi, didn’t back down. “Everyone knows that trading isn’t an exact science.” He wanted to have the last word.

She let out a small sigh. “Sure. But if you didn’t take the time to specify it in every video when you know it very well. And if, on top of it, you put that pressure, you become responsible for it. You almost become a hustler, and they, the victims.” Thanos laughed out loud. He pushed Player 333 aside and approached the young woman, walking oddly. “If this asshole doesn’t make enough money, I’ll hire you to be my lawyer on the way out. To sue his ass.” This time she lowered her head, unable to look him in the eye. “Like I already told you, I’m not a lawyer.” Thanos raised an eyebrow, and watched her walk away, a smirk hovering on his face. He was amused and intrigued.

~~~~~

What’s happened in her brain to make her be noticed in the first hour? She had always stayed in the background, preferring to observe rather than speak. And yet, she had intervened in a story that was none of her business. She had opened her mouth, drawing attention to herself. Something she hated more than anything. After moving away, she sat down on the bed she’d woken up on, hoping that no one would come to make conversation, waiting for the first game. But she couldn’t help observing the purple-haired man. It was hard not to notice, with his style, the way he walked and talked. His confidence and charisma could break through the screen. He was so dramatic that it made her laugh, even though he was supposed to look dangerous. There was something else about him. Something she couldn’t define, but it intrigued her. That’s why she’d come between the two men earlier.

~~~~~

Thanos slowly approached the young woman, who was sitting on one of the beds, her back against the wall, her head bowed. He could see that she was fiddling with her fingers, pulling at the skin around her bitten nails. “Yo, señorita.” She shyly raised her eyes to him, but didn’t answer. She just looked at him curiously. Thanos clung to the bed frame on either side so he could climb onto the empty bed next to hers. He imitated her position, his back against the wall. But instead of crossing his legs, he bent one, his foot flat against the thin mattress, and rested his forearm on his knee, in a position that could be described as cool and relaxed. “Admit it, that was bullshit.” She finally looked up at him. “No, it’s all true.” “Really?” He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

She shrugged. “I suppose so. At least in cop shows, that’s the truth.” He let out a small laugh. He placed his index finger on her mouth, and placed his second on her lips. “It’ll be our little secret.” She couldn’t help smiling against his finger. “Okay.” “Hm...” He tilted his head into his palm, looking at her as if she were interesting. “What else have you learned in your series?” She looked at him very seriously and said. “How to get rid of a body, and especially, how never get caught.” This time, he burst out laughing. His painted nails came to hold his chest and little crow’s feet formed around his eyes. A little more comfortably, she continued. “You’d have to be a real idiot to kill someone in your house with a hammer, with all that blood splattering on the walls. Oh, the worst are those who have an accomplice, and send a message like... ‘It’s done.’” “You’re really something, beauty lawyer.”

The way he said it, with his exaggerated accent and brilliant smile, made her feel a pleasant warmth that spread throughout her body. She felt the blush rise to her cheeks, her shyness resurfacing. “I...” She cleared her throat to regain her composure. “I’m not a lawyer.” He shrugged. “I know, bitch.” She should have insulted him at the nickname, but instead she almost snorted like a pig. It sounded so funny coming out of his mouth. And the look on his face! He tried to act tough, but he just looked comical. She didn’t know if his craziness was contagious or if she felt like she could be herself around him, but she added, raising her hands. “Okay... Bitch.”

His eyes widened, surprised at first, then he let his head fall back, laughing out loud. He was a ball of red energy, while she was a tiny blue crescent. He was her opposite, and yet she had the feeling that, if she dug deeper, they might be a lot more similar than she thought. The whole situation was crazy. It was, like, fourth dimensional. But it was pleasant and calming. She felt much lighter and less stressed before starting the first game. They’d just arrived, and maybe she’d already found an ally, which was cool.

This is my first characters x reader fic... Ahhhh!!!!! Please, be kind <3

You can read it on ao3 here : https://archiveofourown.org/works/64543561/chapters/165760486

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inkformyblood · 4 months ago

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of use all shiny and new (SVSSS, MoShang)

Canon Compliant, Unreliable Narrator Shang Qinghua x Besotted Mobei-Jun

Really, Shang Qinghua should be used to the sudden arrival of his king. The portals had been so cool when he’d first thought of it, huddled underneath three blankets in yet another power outage as a storm raged outside when he’d wanted to be anywhere except there, but he’s suffering.

Two lifetimes under his belt but he still feels like the skinny teenager he’s been twice over now, burdened with the inherent shame of just existing. It’d be easy to just throw himself out of the window to make it all stop, he’s already shrieking, job half-complete.

“Shang Qinghua,” Mobei-Jun says again in the space Shang Qinghua takes to breathe. “What are you doing?”

Shang Qinghua blinks up at the other man, all shimmering silk and fur-clad towering inch of him. Out of the corner of his eye, backed against the corner of his desk, the towering pile of budget forms sways in the breeze from Mobei-Jun’s portal, a few snowflakes drifting over the barrier and melting on the floor. They’d been a bitch to coax out of the few Bai Zhan disciples he could find and then again to get Liu Qingge’s approval as the Peak Lord tried to vanish on another month-long mission. He’s sick of it! The reports have been overdue for a month and if he has to sit through another meeting when Yue Qingyuan calmly inquires after the completion one more time, Shang Qinghua is going to lose his shit, System consequences be damned.

“Nothing, my king. What can this humble servant do for you?”

He tries to clasp his hands in front of himself — safer that way when he can restrain himself from gesturing as he talks, a swing of his arms that would destroy any chance of getting the stack of reports completed — and adjusts to fold them behind his back as Mobei-Jun’s gaze dips to his scabbed knuckles, his jaw tight. Of course, signs of weakness should be avoided. Shang Qinghua laughs, too high, too sharp, shut up!

“We are travelling to the Lapin Kingdom.” Mobei-Jun’s scowl deepens, his lip curling to revealing the sharp edge of a fang, and Shang Qinghua knows he should love all of his creations equally but self-indulgence had been the only luxury he could afford along with his shoebox of an apartment and the spiders settling in for the long haul in his fridge. “This king wishes to hear any intel you have gathered.”

“Ah? Of course, my king. If this humble servant had some time to prepare, I would have had it ready for you, but this servant will provide.” It had been, after all, some of his best work, twenty thousand words for a subscriber special. He’d teased it for weeks beforehand, dropping random polls into his comments to disguise the actual information he needed, and that had been enough to boost his subscriber account to the next milestone before he had even finished writing it. He’d been able to spring for the good ramen off the back of it as well, so suck it Cucumber-bro and his nine paragraph rant about the sheer impossibility of having a semi-tropical climate so close to an ice desert. He’d had to research the effect of wind on climate to make sure it was right.

Mobei-Jun turns away and sits on Shang Qinghua’s bed, his legs splaying wide as he reclines back, sitting on a throne of his own glorious creation instead of stale rumpled sheets. He inclines his head, his dark eyes narrowing.

“The Lapin Kingdom have long been allies of the Northern Desert and are key trading partners for spices and their gold deposits due to their warmer climate. Because of this, ah, there’s a few cultural differences my king should be aware of.” Shang Qinghua moves away from his desk, shaking his hands as he begins to pace in a wandering circle. His boots crunch against the snowflakes piling up in front of the portal before it vanishes as he strays closer, Mobei-Jun huffing out a quiet sound. “Apologies my king. The people tend to wear limited layers, mostly treated skins and golden jewellery, and they expect visitors to dress in an equivalent fashion.”

The result of another poll applied, again, suck it Cucumber-bro, his writing is a pristine example of democracy manifest.

“This servant can supply us both with robes that will suit, I’ll just need some time, Li Bo owes me a favour from the mess he made with that pack of Greater Horned Sloths and then Zhang Fei for a gift?”

“No need.”

Shang Qinghua stumbles to a stop, his fingers caught on the rough edge of his knuckle, his tongue between his teeth. “My king?”

Mobei-Jun stands and Shang Qinghua is grateful for the high ceilings he insisted on as the other man regards him, his face blank. “This servant is still of use to this king. You will wear this.”

Shang Qinghua flinches as a loose bundle is thrown at his head, his hands flying up to grab it. It is lighter than he would have expected given the usual heft of his king’s cloak on the rare occasion that it is dropped over his head. He shakes out a cloak, dark blue to match Mobei-Jun’s colours with a deep hood and a veil to cover his face. He looks up into Mobei-Jun’s chest, the other man suddenly closer, then his face. “My king?”

“You will come with me.” Mobei-Jun folds his arms and Shang Qinghua’s gaze drops to follow the motion. Fuck, he did such a good job writing him. “Choose.”

There’s two clasps attached to the edge of the cloak, one gold, one silver. There’s a flicker of a thought about the cultural benefit of wearing the gold, but Shang Qinghua tugs it free, holding it out to Mobei-Jun.

“This servant will wear his king’s colours.”

#svsss #moshang #shang qinghua #mobei jun #airplane shooting towards the sky #my writing #fanfic

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wishmaster · 1 year ago

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Being gay is hard. Why do straight douchebags like Matt Rife and Jake Paul get all the fame and glory? I wish I could be like them, or worse then I'd have all the fame and glory for sure.

Be Careful...

Suddenly you found yourself snapping pics of your nearly naked body and posting to social media, just enough to tease the ladies and get them to subscribe to your only fans site where you'd share dick pics while padding your account with lots of cash. You in fact would never engage with your bustling female audience instead hang with your douchebag friends and make videos playing grab ass and talking about how you love the way the ladies drool over you. You become the hottest Ass on the internet with an amazing ass that you tease the world with. You begin to build a brand and become rich and famous all off your looks, no talent, just a greasy douche who uses his fans, until you turn 30 and suddenly it all comes crashing down and your role as a ladies wet dream comes crashing down when your filmed being the bottom bitch to a famous leather master. Suddenly your female fans vanish, though your gay fans increase it's not enough to make up for the loss. You end up broke, no followers, no more influence.

You become masters permanent fuck boy. And sure like your heroes for a time you were famous and rich, the douche in you ends up betraying you and you end up locked in leather with a dildo permanently in your ass, thinking of what you lost. They're all one dark secret away from loosing it all.

#body transformation #male transformation #twisted wish #douchebag

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pinkhues · 6 months ago

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╰╮ ⠀ www. ⠀ ❙❘❙❚❙❘❙❙❚❙❘❙❙❘❙ ⠀ ✷ ⠀Remember BE MY ANGEL ? Neither does anyone else who wasn't around in 2011. Just to get you caught up to speed, Be My Angel was once a Youtube channel belonging to a six year old who did silly, little covers of songs and dances for her rapidly growing subscriber count. At first, the little girl seemed happy to make small videos for her "fans." She often gave them shout-outs, blew them kisses at the end of her videos, and had a passion for dance that most assumed will land her as a trainee at a big company like JYP or SM at the time.

For the longest amount of time, no one knew who was behind the account. Obviously it had to be a legal guardian but their face nor voice was never heard on screen. Even on Angel's instagram, all of her photos were just of herself, never of any family or friends. It bothered the few concerned parents who came across her content but nothing ever came about it. Adults and children everywhere dotted on the little girl as if she was a world phenomenon. Her subscriber count grew and grew, her followers online outnumbering actual celebrities.

Be My Angel was an overnight sensation. A star; The people's princess. It only made sense that she held a meet and greet, right? Her mother was present ─ or so everyone thought. She seemed pretty excited to be there. Many photos were taken showing the child smiling and laughing with her fanbase. Even if most of the audience were girls her age, no one could ignore the odd amount of adults in the crowd. Still, Angel seemed happy about seeing all the people cheering her on. And when the night ended, she exclaimed into a camera that she couldn't wait to do it again!

So why was her Youtube channel suddenly deleted in the middle of the night just a year later? Her instagram was taken down shortly after, leaving not a single trace of Be My Angel left anywhere online unless you saved her content. It's been years. So many questions surround just one child. Who was running her account? Why did she suddenly vanish? And more importantly...

Where did she go?

BLUSH ( 블러셔 ) are a five-piece girl group that debuted on June 11, 2023 underneath Poser Records with their debut single PINK PALETTE.

╰╮ ⠀ www. ⠀ ❙❘❙❚❙❘❙❙❚❙❘❙❙❘❙ ⠀ ✷ ⠀ANAIS, JAEYI, ARIELLE, WEI, HEAVEN.

Similar to Arm Candy, Blush's concept revolves around the stages of love and lost, mostly centered on crushes and

⠀ ¹ ⁾ GROUP NAME : ⠀ BLUSH .

⠀ ² ⁾ DEBUT SINGLE : ⠀ PINK PALETTE .

⠀ ³ ⁾ DEBUT DATE : ⠀ APRIL 1, 2022 .

⠀ ⁴ ⁾ SIGNED UNDER : ⠀ POSER RECORDS .

⠀ ⁵ ⁾ GREETING : ⠀ TURNING PINK AND RED! WE'RE BLUSH!

⠀ ⁶ ⁾ FANDOM : ⠀ BUTTERFLIES .

⠀ ⁷ ⁾ FANDOM COLOR : ⠀ CRIMSON HEART, WHITE BUTTERFLIES, PINK BOUQUET .

#⋆ ⠀ intro⠀ ⠀ ─ ⠀⠀ . . ✫ ⠀﹚#fictional idol community #fictional idol oc #fake kpop oc #idol oc #fake kpop group #fake kpop girl group #fake kpop addition #kpop oc #fake kpop idol

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moons-and-mobility-aids · 7 months ago

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Beyond The Screen: Chapter 11 - masterlist

Chapter Word Count: 3.3k words.

Chapter Summary: When Prongs's messages suddenly become sparse, you begin to notice a subtle distance from the trio that once filled your days with flirtation and warmth. Confused and uneasy, you finally receive a message from him—revealing that they had seen you in person at a local café without your knowledge. What follows is an honest and vulnerable exchange about boundaries, privacy, and what it means to be truly seen. Rather than rupture the bond you've formed, the unexpected encounter deepens your connection, strengthening a fragile but meaningful trust between you and the boys.

Tags: Emotional vulnerability, boundary conversations, parasocial dynamics, creator/fan relationship tension, privacy concerns (being unknowingly observed in public), introspective anxiety, respectful confrontation, wheelchair visibility/disclosure, soft reassurance.

Taglist: @alohastitch0626, @jspidey5, @laceandsuch, @kneelforloki, @fionaapplelover2010, @nubigenouss

The change is subtle, a gradual shift you might not have noticed if it weren't for the way your heart lingers on every message, every interaction. Prongs's messages are less frequent now. He still comments on your posts and likes your photos, but the flirty banter that used to fill your inbox every day has slowed. You've grown accustomed to his daily presence—the little jokes that made you smile, the teasing exchanges that were the highlights of your day. But over the past week or so, something feels off.

It's not just the absence of Prongs' messages that tugs at your awareness. There's a sense of dissonance, too subtle to pinpoint at first but growing harder to ignore with each passing day. You know Moony and Padfoot are there, always watching, always supporting from the shadows—even if they don't interact directly, their presence is a constant, quiet hum in the background of your life. Through Prongs, you've come to know them all, forming a connection unlike any other, a camaraderie that transcends the superficial bonds often found on platforms like OnlyFans. But now, even their shared energy feels muted, distant, as though they're pulling away.

The realization sits heavily within you, an unwelcome guest that refuses to leave no matter how hard you try to ignore it. The discomfort gnaws at your insides, a persistent itch just out of reach, demanding your attention.

It isn't uncommon for subscribers to vanish, especially those who pay well, engage often, and seem genuinely invested. You've seen it happen countless times before. They immerse themselves in your content, loyally following for weeks or months, only to fade into the backdrop of anonymity from which they came. Sometimes the departure is gradual—a steady retreat marked by less frequent comments and dwindling tips—while other times, it's abrupt. There one day, gone the next.

You know better than to take it personally. It's the nature of the business, after all. People come and go, their interest waning as life pulls them in different directions. But knowing this doesn't make it sting any less, especially when you've begun to see these three not just as subscribers but as individuals with whom you've forged a connection. The sense of loss nags at you, the hollow feeling that accompanies their absence a reminder of the transient nature of online relationships.

You shake it off, pushing back against the wave of disappointment threatening to pull you under. This is part of the job, you remind yourself.

Today, you're going through your notifications, trying to focus on the fans who are still engaging with your content. There's an excitement in the air—your latest posts have sparked a flurry of activity and your recent video has been particularly well-received. As you scroll through, there are plenty of comments to respond to, tips to acknowledge.

But as you sift through the sea of notifications, you're looking for one name in particular: Prongs.

You tell yourself not to expect much. Maybe another like or a quick comment, less personal than before. But there's nothing, just silence. It's been a few days since you've heard from him directly, and while you keep telling yourself it doesn't matter, the knot in your stomach says otherwise.

You shake your head, pressing your fingers to your temples as if that could push the thought away. You can't afford to dwell on this—it's not like you've done anything wrong. Subscribers come and go. That's the reality of the internet. And you've been here before, haven't you? The last thing you need is to start overthinking things.

The day drags on, each moment filled with a strange tension that you can't quite shake. There's a heaviness in your stomach, a sense of anticipation that lingers even when you try to focus on other things. Something is happening, but what? You're not sure, and the uncertainty gnaws at you, leaving you restless.

As evening falls, you find yourself unable to sleep. The house is quiet, save for the occasional hum of passing cars outside, but it does nothing to ease the unease that has taken hold. Your phone buzzes, pulling you from your thoughts, and you reach for it instinctively, hoping for a distraction.

You expect another comment from one of your new followers—maybe someone curious about the latest video or asking for advice on their own projects. But as you unlock your phone and see the notification, your heart stutters. It's not a comment. It's a message. And the sender's name sends a chill down your spine: Prongs.

There's no burst of excitement this time, no thrill of recognition. Instead, there's a different feeling, something akin to relief but also tinged with a thread of caution. After days of silence, you hadn't known what to think. Now, here he is again, reaching out through the digital ether. But why?

Your thumb hovers over the screen, uncertainty flickering in your chest. Then you tap the notification, and the message unfolds before you.

ProngsPlayground_free: Hey, love. Been meaning to talk to you, but I don’t really know how to explain this. The guys and I have been acting kind of weird lately, huh?

You pause, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. This isn't the usual banter you're used to from him. There's a seriousness to his words that makes your stomach flip with unease. It's not like you hadn't noticed—they'd all been quieter, less engaged. But you hadn't expected him to bring it up. People usually just fade away without explanation when they lose interest in a game. The fact that he's mentioning it now, that he's acknowledging something is off, sends a jolt of surprise through you.

For a moment, you consider not responding. After all, you hadn’t asked for an explanation. But curiosity gnaws at you, and despite your best efforts to remain detached, you find yourself typing out a reply faster than you can second-guess yourself.

You: Yeah, I noticed things were a bit quiet. What’s going on? You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to, but... I’ve been wondering.

The message sent, you set your phone down on your lap and simply wait, watching the clock on the wall tick away the minutes. The silence feels heavy, like the calm before a storm, and you can't shake off the odd sensation of impending change. But what could it be? A goodbye? An apology?

Then, just as you're about to give up and push the thoughts away, your phone buzzes in your lap. The screen lights up with a notification from them. It's a long message, longer than any they've sent before.

ProngsPlayground_free: It’s just... complicated. I’m sorry if we’ve been distant. We’ve been trying to figure out how to handle something, and we didn’t want to make things weird for you. But I think we’ve just ended up making it weird anyway. 😅 The thing is, we saw you.

Your heart stutters as your eyes dart back to the message again, making sure you read it correctly. *They saw you*? What could he possibly mean by that? There's no way they could have seen you in person—or could they? Wouldn't you have noticed?

You: Saw me? What do you mean?

You tap send, your fingers suddenly unsteady. This is not what you expected. Your mind races, trying to make sense of his words. A heavy feeling tugs at your insides, but you don't know why. You haven't done anything wrong—have you?

The response comes quickly.

ProngsPlayground_free: About a week ago. At the café. We were having breakfast and saw you sitting there. You were reading a book and drinking coffee. You didn’t notice us, but... yeah, we saw you.

Your stomach drops. They saw you at the café? The one tucked away on that quiet side street where your mother used to take you after school? You try to recall the last time you were there—about a week ago, you realise. You'd been engrossed in a novel, sipping your coffee, oblivious to the world around you.

Of course, you wouldn't have known them if you had seen them. How could you? You don’t know their faces, their names, nothing beyond what they choose to share online. The realisation makes your breath catch in your throat.

Your heart thumps in your chest, a little faster, a little harder. You squint at the screen, rereading the words, but their meaning doesn't change. They saw you—in person—and they know more about you than you've ever shared.

Before you can stop yourself, your fingers are flying across the screen.

You: Wait, you saw me? Why didn’t you say anything?

The message sends, and you're left staring at the blinking cursor, waiting for a response. Your mind races—part outrage, part embarrassment, but mostly confusion. Why wouldn't they have said something? Why watch from afar?

And there's a pang of fear too, the kind that comes when privacy is violated. Your wheelchair, the quiet moments you claim as your own—all parts of a life you've kept separate, sacred. You never thought your subscribers would spill over into that world.

ProngsPlayground_free: We didn't want to scare you off. Honestly, we were at a loss ourselves. This distance... it's been a constant in our relationship. You've never seen our faces, and we know you only through the lens you choose to show us. Seeing you there was unexpected. We weren't sure how to react.

The words on the screen blur as you lean back, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. A part of you understands why they didn't say anything before. If the roles were reversed, you're not sure you would have known what to do either.

You've always maintained control over what parts of your life you let seep into this digital world. And now, they've seen something you've never shown them—not because of deceit but because of necessity. There's a wall between your private life and the one you share with these people who know you as you are. They've just caught a glimpse of the other side of that wall.

You return your gaze to the chat window, fingers hovering over the keys. Slowly, you begin to type, each word carefully chosen, a testament to the storm raging inside you.

You: That's... a lot to take in. I can understand why you didn't say anything. Still, it's surprising to hear. I've kept my personal life separate from all this—not because I don't trust you, but because some things are meant to stay private.

The message sends with a finality that leaves you feeling more exposed than you'd like. You've never shared this much with a subscriber before, never let them see the delicate dance between your reality and the persona they pay for. But this isn't about them overstepping—it's about the blurred lines, the encroaching of one world onto another in a way you hadn't anticipated.

A minute passes, then two. The silence stretches out before you until finally, Prongs replies.

ProngsPlayground_free: We understand. And we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to cross a line, and we don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. We’ve really enjoyed getting to know you, but we respect your boundaries. If you want us to back off, we’ll understand.

You read their message, a part of you bracing for the relief that should come with their offered distance. But instead of wanting to run, you find yourself drawn in by their sincerity. You have enjoyed getting to know them too, haven't you? And now, with everything out in the open, there's an odd sense of...relief? You blink, surprised at your own reaction.

You sit still for a moment, your eyes scanning Prongs's message again, the words echoing in your mind. They're giving you an out, a chance to put some space between you and them—and yet, you don't want to take it. Despite the strangeness of the situation, you don't feel threatened or upset. Rather, you feel seen, understood, albeit through a lens more intimate than you had ever anticipated.

You: I appreciate that, truly. And for what it's worth, I'm not angry or anything. Just... weird, I guess? I've worked hard to keep these lives separate, and to know you've seen me—seen parts of my life I don't usually share here—it feels like an intrusion, even if unintentionally so. It makes me vulnerable in a way I didn't expect.

You pause for a moment, wondering if you’re oversharing, but then you continue typing.

You: I’m not mad at you for not saying anything, though. I get it. It would’ve been weird for all of us, I guess. But... I hope seeing me like that didn’t change the way you see me online?

The message sends, and you stare at the screen, your heart pounding. There's a vulnerability to this, an exposure you hadn't anticipated when you logged on today. They've seen you outside the curated space of your streams, unfiltered and unaware. It wasn't a side of yourself you ever intended to reveal to them, and now that they've glimpsed it, you can't help but wonder if their image of you has shifted.

The response comes quicker than you expect, and relief washes over you as you realise Prongs hasn't left you hanging.

ProngsPlayground_free: It didn’t change anything. If anything, it made us respect you even more. We’ve always known there’s more to you than what we see online, but seeing you just living your life, being real... it was kind of a reminder that you’re a whole person outside of this.

You exhale, letting the tightness in your chest unwind with the breath. The tension in your shoulders lessens, if only slightly. These words, they offer a comfort you hadn't expected, a reminder that these people aren't just fans or voyeurs seeking to consume one version of you. They see you—really see you—as a person, not just a performer. And somehow, that recognition feels more vital than you ever could have imagined

How to respond is a puzzle you're not sure you can solve just yet. As if sensing your hesitation, the app buzzes again, Prongs' next message appearing on the screen. It's longer this time, more thoughtful.

ProngsPlayground_free: We've been talking among the three of us, and we felt a bit guilty about seeing you without you knowing. It made us realize that we've built a connection with you, but it's always been on your terms, and we respect that. We didn't want to overstep, but seeing you made us realize there's a lot we don't know about you. And that's okay. We're not entitled to know everything. But we want you to know we're here for whatever you're comfortable sharing—whether that's more or if you want to keep things as they are.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, your eyes scanning the words again and again. There's relief in them, an acknowledgement of the space that exists between creator and fan. There's also something else, something deeper that tugs at corners of your mind—an understanding that feels too personal coming from strangers.

It's unusual, this sense of respect from subscribers who could so easily demand more. But then again, these three have never been ordinary.

Your fingers hover above the keyboard, the tension in your shoulders easing. For the first time since this conversation started, you feel some semblance of control returning.

You: I appreciate that. More than you know. It's strange to think I've let people into my life without even realizing it, but I'm glad it's been you three. You've always been respectful, and that's why I felt comfortable sharing so much with you. You're not just subscribers to me—you feel like friends, even though we've never met.

The message sends, and you sit back, surprised by your own candour yet oddly reassured by it. Over the past few weeks, your interactions with Prongs—and through him, Moony and Padfoot—have stood out from the rest. They've never pushed for more than you were willing to give, and now, in the most unexpected of ways, it seems they've given you something invaluable in return: understanding.

ProngsPlayground_free: We feel the same way, honestly. It’s strange to say because we know it’s different on our end, but we’ve enjoyed getting to know you too. We want you to know that we’re completely okay with keeping things at whatever level you’re comfortable with. Our intention has never been to make you feel awkward or uncomfortable.

The corners of your mouth twitch upward as you read their message, a small smile breaking through the layers of uncertainty. Their words are a balm, soothing the raw edges of your apprehension. They don't demand more; they accept what you offer, and that acceptance grants you a sense of control—an essential element for your peace of mind.

For a moment, you consider letting the conversation rest there, but then another thought crosses your mind.

You: Okay, I have to ask—what did you think when you saw me? Like, was it weird seeing me just sitting there, reading? Did I look... different?

The query feels intimate, almost too much so. But now that they know who you are, it somehow feels okay to ask. To want to understand what it was like for them, seeing a slice of your life you've never shared before.

Prongs' response comes almost immediately, as if he'd been anticipating the question.

ProngsPlayground_free: You didn’t look different at all. Well, maybe a little, but only because we’re so used to seeing you in a different context. Seeing you in real life was... grounding, I guess? You looked like yourself, but not the version we see online. You were just... you. And that was kind of amazing.

The message sits there on your screen, the words blurring slightly as you blink back unexpected emotion. You touch a hand to your throat, feeling the knot there loosen. It's not the answer you expected, but it's the one you needed without realising it. All this time you've been crafting an image, a persona confident and unshakeable. To know they saw you in a moment of quiet, of vulnerability, and recognised you—the real you—without judgment or expectation, is a balm you didn't know you craved.

You straighten up, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you prepare to respond, your heart lighter than it has been in a long while.

You: Thank you for saying that. I think I needed to hear it. I guess I've always worried about what people would think if they saw the real me. It's a relief knowing that wasn't the case with you guys.

There's a finality to your words as you send them off into the digital ether—a sense of closure you didn't anticipate but welcome nonetheless. What seemed tangled and murky just moments ago now holds a clarity that settles over your thoughts, like the calm after a storm. Your connection with Prongs and his friends feels stronger, not despite the revelations, but because of them. They're no longer just fans—they're people who see you, respect you, and understand your boundaries.

A reply pops up on your screen, and Prongs's words bring a small smile to your face.

ProngsPlayground_free: Always, love. 😊

You set your phone aside, letting the soft light from its screen fade into the darkness of your room. A deep breath fills your lungs, a sense of relief washing over you as you exhale slowly, tension uncoiling from your shoulders. The week's stress seems to lift, leaving behind a calm that has been elusive for days.

It's not a guarantee, you know. Things might still shift and change with the boys, with everything. But right now, in this moment, it feels like you're on the same page. All of you.

And for tonight, that's enough.

#Poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #Sirius black x reader #Sirius black x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #james potter x you #james potter x reader #marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfic #beyond the screen #chantelle writes fic

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