#the human experience. emotions. the humanness of it all

[yourkneecapsaremine]

yes they are. the BITE model applies to them perfectly. although they’re somewhat tame compared to other groups, and a bit more variance is allowed among individual beliefs and choices, this is largely because they don’t have the power to enforce things on the same scale as the amish for example.

behavior:

promote dependence and obedience (taught that there is no happiness or hope for you outside the cult. the people in the cult are your number 1 support system, who you always help you if you experience any hardship ((for example when my mom broke her ankle, for about a week various members of the organization brought us meals to help us out.) these are your brothers and sisters, your best friends.)

restrict or control sexuality (no premarital sex, no homosexuality, no oral or anal sex, no masturbation. these are all considered “perverted desires of the flesh”)

control clothing and hairstyle (you can never wear anything “immodest” that brings reproach on jehovah’s name. no dyed hair, no long hair for men, no piercings (unless they’re on the ear), no jewelry for men, dresses have to be below the knees, no clothes too tight that highlight the body, etc. etc.)

information (this one is huge with these guys):

deliberately withhold and distort information (facts and news are always twisted into a way that supports them. the organization is never in the wrong. will cite scientific facts without a source.)

forbid you from speaking with ex-members or critics (okay so their policy on this one has only recently changed. it used to be, that if you were baptized as one of jehovah’s witnesses, and then you left, you were ex-communicated (your friend may not have been baptized, that’s why they still lived with their family). not even your family was allowed to speak with you. after intense criticism on this now the ex-communication is now a lot more lax and it’s just like a “proceed with caution” thing)

discourage access to non-cult sources of information (jw.org is the number one most trusted resource. see something on the news that criticizes jw’s? its not true. fact check on jw.org. never allowed to engage with apostates (people who actively slander their faith) in any sort of discourse because they may weaken your faith. very dangerous. renew your faith by associating with members of the organization)

divide information into insider vs. outsider information (goes hand-in-hand with the last one. any outsider information cannot be trusted, and is created either by ignorant people who don’t truly know god or by evil people who seek to bring reproach on his name)

generate and use propaganda extensively (have this monthly news broadcast where they talk abt current events, give stories about jws around the world, talk about the bible, etc. release articles and stuff on their website. propaganda always reinforces us vs. them ideas)

thought:

instill black vs. white, us vs. them, good vs. evil thinking (overgeneralizes outsiders, paint them as either ignorant or immoral. believes that they are all suffering immensely without jehovah in their lives. a sort of perverse glee at the idea of all the sinners being killed during armageddon)

change your identity (they literally call it “taking off the old personality and putting on the new personality.” new personality involves changing bad habits, styles, thoughts, etc. and being more in line with god)

emotional:

label some emotions as evil, worldly, sinful, or wrong

promote feelings of guilt, shame, & unworthiness (this one is a little strange because they also give advice on how to stop feeling super guilty for your past actions, like they don’t want it to hinder you. but basically you are constantly told that god’s undeserved kindness is the only reason sinful humans have any chance at redemption. we are inherently selfish animals, but god in all his mercy allows us to serve him anyway.)

shun you if you disobey or disbelieve (until recently)

teach that there is no happiness or peace outside the group (having jehovah in your life is the only way to make it fulfilling and happy. without him we’re all just on the miserable march towards death. jehovah’s standards and rules make us happier and more agreeable, he knows what’s best)

America has a weird relationship with cults where they’re terrified of small cults (or organizations they think are cults) but completely normalized massive cults that hurt many more people (eg: LDS Church, Jehovah’s Witnesses, the Amish, Scientology, most Megachurches)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Fear of Abandonment

Abandonment - desertion or substantial leave-taking by a parent or primary caregiver of their custodial and other responsibilities to a dependent. Dependents are usually children but may also be adult individuals who are ill.

Abandonment Reaction - a feeling of emotional deprivation, loss of support, and loneliness experienced by children who have been deserted or neglected by a parent or primary caregiver. Abandonment reaction is also experienced by adults who have lost a loved one on whom they have depended.

As humans, we depend on others for survival.

Starting from birth, the need to be fed, bathed, clothed, sheltered, and cared for is essential for survival and optimal function.

Because healthy human development requires physical and emotional care, fear of abandonment can result from unmet needs in either childhood or adulthood (Fraley, 2019).

The impact of abandonment issues can have devastating effects on personal wellbeing, relationships, and long-term mental health (Fraley, 2019).

Fear of Abandonment

Not a clinical diagnosis in and of itself.

It is a form of anxiety and a symptom of several clinical disorders, including both mood and personality disorders.

Individuals who experience abandonment are also more likely to have long-term mental health issues (Schoenfelder et al., 2011).

Those who struggle with abandonment issues have a persistent fear of rejection or isolation. It is often characterized by codependency, insecurity, and maladaptive views of power, competence, and intimacy, which makes interpersonal relationships and daily functioning difficult (D’Rozario & Pilkington, 2021).

Signs of Fear of Abandonment

Fear of abandonment can manifest as anxiety, insecurity, and isolation.

Symptoms of abandonment issues can begin in childhood and extend throughout the lifespan if left untreated.

Signs of abandonment issues in children include:

Acting “clingy” or experiencing emotional dysregulation when left alone

Excessively worrying or panicking about losing someone close

Generally fearing being alone

Getting sick more often due to stress

Children may get anxious in new settings, situations, or when dropped off at school or daycare. Symptoms may also lead to isolation, low self-esteem, and unhealthy coping mechanisms such as substance abuse and eating disorders (Mack et al., 2011).

In adults, signs of abandonment issues include:

Pushing people away. This presents as withdrawal, exhibiting trust issues, and the inability to be open and honest with loved ones.

Codependency. Codependency is when individuals rely on other people to meet all their emotional needs. People who become overly needy and possessive in relationships are often codependent.

Anger. They might allow others to get close to them but then become aggressive, reactive, or volatile if they feel threatened or upset.

Long-term effects of abandonment often lead to general anger, mood swings, and lack of confidence (Mack et al., 2011). Fear of abandonment is primarily characterized by the inability to establish or maintain healthy relationships.

Fear of Abandonment in Relationships

Fear of abandonment can negatively affect any relationship (Fraley, 2002). These include professional, intimate/romantic, and social relationships, as well as casual acquaintances.

People who experience fear of abandonment may have ruminating and irrational thoughts (anxiety), question other people’s motives (mistrust), or make false assumptions about how another person interprets an interaction.

For example, a partner might have irrational or excessive fears that their spouse is having an affair because they had been cheated on in the past. The partner constantly accuses their spouse, creating arguments and conflict. The lack of trust and discord creates distance between them, and the couple stops communicating and grows apart.

Signs that abandonment fears are negatively affecting a relationship include (Fraley, 2002):

People-pleasing or one partner always giving too much or reaching out

Envy or jealousy of other people’s relationships

Inability to trust another person

Constant feeling of insecurity in the relationship

Needing to control all decisions and aspects of the relationship

Inability to provide or accept physical or emotional intimacy

Causes of Abandonment Issues

A variety of experiences play a role in fear of abandonment and abandonment issues.

These include (Mikulincer & Shaver, 2010):

Physical or emotional abuse or neglect

Any trauma experienced because of abandonment

Feeling rejected by caregivers

The death of a parent or primary caregiver

Being emotionally or physically abandoned by a friend or loved one

Fear of abandonment generally begins in childhood and results from adverse childhood experiences (or ACEs).

ACEs describe different types of stressful and traumatic experiences, such as neglect, abuse, or traumatic loss (Feriante et al., 2023).

The first year of life is impactful to a child’s development, and a child’s attachment style is formed by the age of five (Feriante et al., 2023).

Abandonment issues are closely linked to insecure attachment styles and the inability to form close, stable relationships.

People will often choose partners or be drawn to relationships that fit patterns from their past, based on attachment styles.

Fear of Abandonment and Attachment styles

Bowlby (1969) defines attachment as a lasting psychological connection between two human beings. As the founder of attachment theory, he believed that parent–child interactions early in life determine cognitive and behavioral social connectedness throughout the lifespan.

Secure attachment styles are demonstrated by a person who can trust and be open to others (Bowlby, 1969). A securely attached person is responsive, warm, and can form healthy close relationships.

On the other hand, insecure attachment results when children have caregivers who are either inconsistently available and nonresponsive or completely unavailable and neglectful (Mikulincer & Shaver, 2010).

The 3 types of insecure attachment styles (Bowlby, 1969):

Avoidant attachment styles are seen in those who cope with abandonment issues by not allowing others to get close. Individuals with avoidant attachment are distant, withdrawn, and not trusting of others. They fear commitment and shut down or end relationships to avoid conflict.

Anxious attachment styles are seen in those who latch on to others and create intensely close, codependent relationships to cope with fears of abandonment. People with this attachment style seem needy and have trouble separating themselves from their partner. They are emotionally reactive and perceive conflict as a threat that their partner will leave them.

Individuals with disorganized attachment styles are uncomfortable with closeness and intimacy and may lack empathy. Disorganized attachment is often associated with antisocial, narcissistic, or BPD traits.

Fortunately, even if insecure attachment styles are developed in childhood, the problematic behaviors and fear of abandonment associated with them can be treated and, ultimately, changed.

Overcoming Fear of Abandonment

While fear of abandonment is associated with many mental health and mood disorders, it is highly treatable.

Individuals who seek help can improve personal wellbeing and interpersonal relationships.

Therapy Treatment Options

Attachment-based therapy uses a supportive client–therapist bond to address issues with mental health, such as depression and anxiety. It targets thoughts, feelings, behaviors, and interpersonal communication that clients avoid or over-amplify based on early-developed attachment styles (Pilkington et al., 2021).

Behavioral therapy incorporates talk therapy to root out unhealthy behaviors and habits that are related to the mental health conditions underlying the fear of abandonment.

Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy (CBT) helps clients identify faulty thinking patterns or cognitive distortions and replace them with more adaptive thinking patterns. This evidence-based form of therapy is effective at treating anxiety and depression and improving relationships through changing perspectives and communication patterns.

Psychodynamic therapy encourages clients to identify and resolve unhealthy unconscious and conscious thoughts about past experiences. Through improving self-awareness and understanding, clients can see how their past may influence present thoughts and behaviors and make changes.

Psychoeducation provides information to a client regarding a diagnosis, treatment options, and underlying theories (such as attachment theory) that may contribute to abandonment fears. Often, understanding and labeling problematic behaviors and fears can be one of the most helpful steps in healing.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs On Attachment ⚜ Avoidant ⚜ Anxious ⚜ Secure ⚜ Disorganized

[wolfsocks61]

cinderella colt

open image for better quality :) more info+transcription below!

BUDDY:

- He's a batpony which isn't TECHNICALLY a vampire. Chase verdict: doesn't count.

- All the keys are breezies in their humanoid (equinoid?) form. However, he was originally a Pegasus.

- Hides flank; has no cutie mark. He did not earn his cutie mark when he was a regular Pegasus, so he doesn't have it at all yet.

- Though his batpony wings are strong and dexterous, as a breezy his wings are very delicate. He takes the opportunity in books to use his stronger wings and often flutters around instead of trotting. Also note that breezy magic is activated by a breeze, so without it, they can’t fly!

- Chase just assumes he hides his cutie mark to hide his identity.

CHASE:

- He is a Pegasus, but his wings are smaller than average. He CANNOT fly, only hover/flutter off and onto the ground.

- Chase got his cutie mark at a younger than average age. Though with having it so long, he sometimes questions what it means to him.

- Although he can’t fly, he uses his wings all the time - he uses them to express or stress a point, basically talking with his hands except it’s with wings.

- Gets mad at Deacon because his horn is cheating with height (he is still just taller without it anyhow…)

DEACON:

- A Unicorn with a talent in magic - however, he is part KIRIN/NIRIK. When he experiences intense emotions, specifically rage, he transforms into a NIRIK. He is still learning to control this form for fear of causing destruction with it - though perhaps what he really needs is to just let it out.

- He has a kirin like tail, more feather than his other relatives, and cloven hooves (though they aren't fully separate toes).

- His family, and sometimes Deacon himself, wilfully misunderstand his cutie mark as representing a studious nature. In truth is it representative of "writing one's own story".

- His magic is blue (same as his eyes, maybe a bit lighter). It can be purple/red when he is stressed as a precursor to his Nirik form.

PRUNELLA:

- A Blankflank, yet to get her cutie mark. She is an Earth pony, as well as her mother, but is rather agile despite that.

I’ll probably draw more of these guys so keep an eye out.

OTHER: I guess Deacon has an obsession with humans instead of horses. It's a mysteryyyy, anthropologyyyyy…..

[kxsagi]

cheered, jumped, did jumping jacks even when i saw ur reqs r open again

ANYWAYYYSSSS can i just request a fic of kunigami as obanai and fem!reader (player for bllk) as mitsuri plzpzlzpzlz like just personality wise after kunigami got wildcareded

ESPPPP LIKE THAT ONE SCENE WITH OBANAI GIVING MITSURI THE SOCKS AND WAITITNG FO RHER TO FINISHE ATIN FHSKJDJSDH i lvoe them sm omg

anyways that's rlly it. i just beg for a fic of these two tbh of them and their shenanigans with kunigami constantly being followed around by reader & her just rambling to him about something cool she saw (even if kunigami was also there to experience it) and her having bizarre explanations for stuff idk

kinda like bachira but way more extreme. v expressive

“𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫”

a/n: hiii i apologize this request took me much longer to complete, i had a hard time writing it and honestly put it off for a while because of that… i haven’t read demon slayer in 4 years lol but i hope i did this right!

ac goes to Sideburn004 on X!

kunigami rensuke was, unfortunately, allergic to nonsense. 

he liked order. discipline. rules. proper stretching techniques. silent recovery hours. full-body training suits zipped all the way up even in summer. he didn’t do “vibes,” he did “structure.” the kind of guy who kept a pocket notebook of daily macros and actually knew where it was. the kind of guy who sent anonymous complaints to the dorm monitor when someone left their protein shaker unwashed for two days straight. probably slept on his back with both arms crossed over his chest like a vampire. 

you, meanwhile, were shaped like a glitter explosion in human form. 

you lived in the same blue lock dorm building as him, trained on the same pitch, and unfortunately for kunigami, were also on the same team during the current evaluation phase. 

you – loud, dramatic, chronically over hydrated because someone told you once that water makes emotions stronger. 

him – tall, stern, a human boulder with a voice that sounded like a “no” before he even spoke. 

you adored him. no, worshipped was the better word. 

“kunigami-kun!! did you see that pigeon outside the gym just now?! it was standing in a puddle like it was contemplating the meaning of water!!!” 

he grunted. he was also there. you were both on cooldown walks. you both saw the pigeon. but you somehow made it sound like a god-sent vision. 

“we were both there,” he replied, voice deadpan, arms crossed as you jogged to keep pace with his long-legged stride. 

“yeah, but like,” you said, starry-eyed, “you didn’t see it like i saw it. the way it just. stood there. like. a soggy philosopher. i think i almost cried.” 

kunigami stared forward. clenched his jaw. 

you were definitely going to get them both kicked out for unsanctioned emotional outbursts again. 

but you couldn’t help it. you were always like this. passionate to the point of danger. if someone scored in training, you were screaming. full-on “OH MY GOSH LET’S GOOOOO” with clapping, jumping, sometimes crying. if someone missed, you’d speed walk over and pat them on the back with something like, “that was beautiful. tragic. shakespearean. arthouse. i felt that shot in my bones.” 

you were, as kunigami described you (to isagi, in private), “chaotic. loud. no sense of tactical discipline. doesn’t shut up.” 

you were, as kunigami wrote in his notebook (very small, back page), “energetic. different. passionate. fast.” 

and you were always right behind him. 

during sprints? you’d run next to him, narrating your inner monologue aloud like a shonen protagonist. 

“my legs are burning!! this is so good for character development. i’m literally ascending right now. kunigami, do you think muscles have feelings, like, do they know we’re proud of them?” 

“no,” he said. 

you ignored him completely. “like what if every rep we do is actually us saying ‘i love you’ in muscle language–” 

“shut up.” 

“rude,” you gasped, clutching your chest. “i’m literally giving a TED talk here.” 

he sped up. you sped up with him. 

he briefly considered injury. just temporary. minor ankle sprain. maybe then he could have five seconds of peace. 

the worst part was you were good. terrifyingly good. like “no one knows where you came from and you won’t tell anyone your backstory” kind of good. and every time kunigami tried to focus during training, there you were. all kinetic energy and rogue commentary. 

“watch this pass,” you’d whisper at him before doing something stupidly complex and somehow making it work. and then: “DID YOU SEE THAT?? DID YOU??” 

“i was on the field,” he said. 

“YEAH, BUT LIKE, WAS IT SEXY OR WAS IT SEXY? BE HONEST.” 

“it was acceptable.” 

he was lying. he wrote down your technique that night and tried it twice in secret before bed. 

you followed him everywhere. like a shadow if shadows were talkative and deeply obsessed with post-practice smoothies. 

you once sat next to him during a cooldown stretch and said, “kunigami. kunigami, listen. what if soccer is just reverse volleyball.” 

he blinked. “what the hell does that mean.” 

you flopped dramatically onto your back and pointed at the ceiling like you were giving a thesis. 

“think about it. volleyball is about not letting the ball touch the ground. soccer is about letting it only touch the ground unless you’re a freaky little goalie. so like. yin and yang. balance. duality. kunigami, are you listening? this is the most philosophical i’ve ever been.” 

“you’re doing hamstring stretches wrong,” he replied. 

and the thing was somehow, somehow, he didn’t tell you to leave. 

kunigami didn’t like people. they were messy. unpredictable. inefficient. but you? you were all of those things loudly, and still he never told you to get lost. not even once. 

he told you to shut up. a lot. he told you to hydrate with electrolytes instead of pure coconut water because “you’re going to pass out one day and i’m not carrying you.” he told you to stop doing forward rolls into your warm-ups because they “aren’t real exercises” and you looked like “a deranged gymnast.” 

but he never told you to go away. and that bugged him. 

because the more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t mind when you followed him. or when you waved at him across the field like a lunatic just because the sun “hit his hair in a majestic lion way.” or when you gave him one of your friendship bracelets and said “you need more whimsy in your life and this has a little frog charm because it looks like your grumpy face.” he wore it. still wore it. 

he hated that he noticed when you weren’t around. like that one day when you had physio and the locker room was just. silent. empty. quiet. normal. he hated it. 

and one afternoon, after a match simulation, you collapsed dramatically next to him on the turf, panting, hair sticking to your forehead. 

“kunigami,” you whispered, voice solemn. “i think i love soccer more than i love people.” 

“i thought you loved people,” he said, barely turning his head. 

you stared at the sky like it held the answers. “i do. people are like walking emotional meatballs and i’m obsessed with all of them. but soccer… soccer gets me. soccer is like–” 

“if you say it’s a metaphor for the universe again–” 

“no. no this time it’s different. soccer is like that one best friend who lets you scream and fall over and cry into their shin guards, but still passes you the ball anyway. soccer believes in me.” 

you rolled over to look at him, eyes wide, sweat-streaked and sparkling. “do you believe in me, kunigami?” 

he stared at you for a moment. the sun hit your cheek like a halo. your wrist was still wrapped with a second bracelet, the one he’d returned with a matching lion charm. you looked like a disaster. but a joyful one. like if chaos and sunlight had a daughter and enrolled her in blue lock. 

“… yeah,” he muttered. “i do.” 

you beamed. kunigami immediately regretted it. 

“does this mean you’ll let me draw you as a centaur for my next mood board–” 

“no.” 

the next day, kunigami found a new drawing taped to his locker. 

it was him. but he was surrounded by frogs. in sunglasses. doing tactical drills. written at the bottom in pink marker: “FROGS OF DISCIPLINE – featuring king kunigami & his army of jumpy little rule-followers 🐸✨” 

he stared at it for a long, long time. and then folded it neatly. tucked it into his notebook. never spoke of it again. but wore the new frog charm you snuck onto his water bottle. every single day after that. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[mutt-monster]

TLDR; When you impulsively call someone a “chaser” or a “fetishist” for being sexually attracted to uncommon physical traits, you are denying people of that category a positive experience related to their body. This increases stigma associated with such traits, and you are hurting that community. An ally of X community isn’t an ally if they immediately call people “fetishists” or “chasers” for being attracted to that community’s inherent physical traits.

This is not to deny the existence of harmful objectification. It is very real, but it is not restricted to any one community. Anyone can be objectified for *any* physical trait.

=================================

I want to add that I think — because this occurs across communities — that this truly is a general issue stemming from the old “don’t judge a book by its cover” being taken to the extreme.

Books have covers for a reason.

You can read a book, but without the cover would you have ever noticed it in the first place? When you wander around a library or B&N, how do you find a book? How do you find something that calls to you. I bet you just said, “I saw the cover,” but I’ll take it one step further. I bet you also walked over to the shelf that had a specific type of book. Does that mean you like the book purely for it’s subject, or purely for its cover? No, read the book and you liked it. This may not be the case for all the books you like, I’m sure some of their covers might not be very interesting, but it was a good book nonetheless. People can be the same way. You can be drawn to a person for their visual qualities, and whether they might be a wonderful partner (or not) comes after you read them. This is my first argument. A “fetishist” and “chaser” is just a person who knows what covers draw them.

Now lets talk about people, because books don’t have emotions. People have bodies, and they want to feel sexy in their body.

When you call the beholder a “chaser” and a “fetishist” you are denying the the person beheld of a positive body-related experience. You twist these admissions of attraction and beauty into something demeaning and malicious. This is may simply due to the connotation of these words, but the impact of this negative association is profound. When you call someone who is sexually attracted to transgender people a “chaser” by default, you are sending a message that transgender people don’t deserve to be found sexually attractive. The same goes for automatically calling someone a “fetishist” in the case of disabled and fat people. This increases stigma around these physical traits, harming the communities they belong to. This is my second argument.

Let me be clear. Objectification of real people IS a problem, but it is not limited to any one community. When you negatively objectify a person (I say “negatively” because there can be positive objectification within circles like the kink community), you are buying a book with no intention of reading it. You are denying someone’s humanity, someone’s personality and and soul, simply because you want their body. Let me repeat this one more time, OBJECTIFICATION IS NOT LIMITED TO ONE COMMUNITY. This is my third argument.

Thank you for your time. I hope you have many people who think you are sexy and the bomb. Goodnight. *mic drop*

The weird intersection between fatphobia, sexual puritanism and fake progressiveness that breeds the idea that a skinny person attracted to fat people is a "chubby chaser" or a "fat fetishist" and not just like. Someone who has the hots for fat people. The idea that only another fat person could be attracted to fat people, otherwise it's sinister. Secretly you think any skinny person who'd want to fuck a fat person is debasing and devaluing ourselves, but you've pivoted into pretending you worry about a fat person's dignity.

[qinche-cvmslvt]

Hey everyone, I just wanted to address something quickly.

There’s been some chatter after my recent post where I joined a trending prompt using AI. First, I want to say I absolutely understand that AI is a complex and emotional topic for a lot of people in creative spaces. I respect that.

For clarity, I’ve always been transparent about how I make my content. That post included the full prompt because I value honesty about what I create. It was a one-off trend post and not a replacement for the work I’ve poured my heart into for months.

I also want to say I’ve supported and commissioned artists in this community before, and I’ll continue to do so. I deeply appreciate the time, skill, and passion that goes into handmade art. It’s irreplaceable.

At the end of the day, my page will always be about celebrating creativity. Whether that’s through writing, collaborating, commissioning artists, or experimenting. If you choose to unfollow me over one post that is your choice. You’re free to curate your creative space just as I am.

I will be turning off my asks though, something I loved keeping open because I enjoy getting prompts and connecting with all of you. But I’m also human and I shouldn’t have to wake up to messages that demonize my character or diminish my self-worth over participating in a trend.

For those staying, thank you for seeing all of me, not just one post out of context. You make this space worth sharing. 🖤

For anyone who may be curious this is the art I had commissioned of my MC and Sylus ❤️

[a-lady-in-shining-armour]

I have no idea what country you’re from, but this is not my experience at all. I have seen men and boys express the entire spectrum of human emotions in both public and private and it’s completely normal. It hasn’t improved our high rate of domestic violence, which is objectively more serious than men feeling embarrassed to cry in public. Complaining about male socialisation to women who can’t even socialise domestic violence out of men is utterly pointless and the epitome of first world problems. If you find gender roles constricting, break them.

[dem0nteef]

Miss Teef! How about just Papa V HCS in general? If you have any to share with us 🙂‍↕️

Regards

🚀 Anon

oh honey. you've got a big storm coming.

overall i have many opinions about writing perp, my own writing included because jdebosndkd i just let him become this Odd Apparition With Too Many Surfaces in my head.

He used to struggle with expressions a lot as a child. Not because he couldn’t muster them up — but because he had too many. He would practice "normal" expressions in front of the mirror many times as a boy, trying to grasp what exactly his emotions were supposed to look like to avoid disturbing others.

The thing about him is that he has never fully grown into social cues. Well, he has to a degree, but for example: he used to get mocked as a child for "smiling weirdly" because it was too wide, too sharp, too... himself.

Now, he has learnt not to care. We know that he's quite expressive with all those pouts, grins and grimaces.

And as he grows more confident and sheds more of the old hurt, he comes to smile more often. Genuinely. Like he's no longer wary of showing his feelings untranslated.

He's always had a bit of a mean streak, though nothing malicious. just... a sliver of asshole tendencies shining through at times.

He can be cuddly like a little black cat, playful and mischievous and pushing the metaphorical glasses of water off tables. He can be a bit of a little shit. Gods below preserve you if you give him a reason to be smug.

At the same time, he is a Creature with flickers of something not quite human behind his eyes. I think it intensifies as his papacy goes on, the longer he's exposed to the infernal and the more time passes since he's been baptised in flame and not holy water. Does he hear voices? Has he always heard them, or is that a new development? Does he see the world as everyone else does, or can the silver eye glimpse beyond that? Lmfao, he's not telling you.

Despite that, he is still technically human and able to experience genuine emotions, love and care for others, even if he's sort of discovering what it means to live for oneself for the first time just now.

But also—he is a middle-aged man with possible clerical past. If he has experienced the Catholic Church's higher ranks for long enough (even as more of an onlooker), I don't think he would be naïve like an altar boy.

He's a peacock but not in the theatre kid/Freddie Mercury way of Terzo, more in the Phantom of the Opera/goth whimsy manner. And he's whimsical, alright.

He would read Milton and Baudelaire and want to go to museums and stare at old reliquaries!!

[godslush]

Not really a question but maybe a question if in my ramblings I can think of something. Your art of Spine and Sam? From Look Outside? Honestly changed me on her character. I thought she was just a creepy monster and killed her. But, man, all the sweet art you’ve made, or the creepy things you’ve explored with them… it’s just!!! So good!!?!!??! It has changed my brain chemistry I love Spine now and I LOOOOVE your art of her immensely. You’re the GOAT for all that fantastic fanart and just. I’m sorry I’m rambling but yeah. I love you

*evilly tapping steepled fingers together * yeeeessssss more meat for the pilessss....

I mean... *cough*

Ok, all joking aside, THANK YOU so much! 😭

Honestly, it's funny how far this has come. When I originally posted screens of the full encounter after it was added, I was on the side of "ok that's not cool you can't just do/say that" and figured (at the time) it was justified to be filled with lead.

The fact that I eventually just saw the... interesting narrative that came with the idea (plus my own experiences) led me to start writing this weird loneliness narrative with Sam as the lonely one. It wasn't until Blue and Orange that I started to think about the ramifications of Spine being trapped where she is, and how she might very well also be lonely... She just had the misfortune of being physically and mentally mutilated beforehand so her ability to communicate it has been warped outside of human reason and emotion.

I find that fascinating.

That was before 1.5. Shortly before the beta dropped.

Then 1.5 beta happened and eventually released and SHATTERED what information we're given about Spine as a character, and really let that narrative blossom, and I love that more and more people are slowly realizing that... yeah, she's a creep, but she's a creep who's really really interesting to try and understand, and even pity (and maybe find kinda hot, if you're into that sort of thing; I see y'all in my tags, lmao I'm totally not one of you in a weird ace way).

Even Frankie understands what he's done, hahahaha.

I wouldn't say Spine is a 'popular' character, but the people who do realize they like her tend to REALLY like her. Once she gets her claws in your heart, she's hard to pry out. She's just so polarizing, which is really fun, and Frankie has said he really likes that about her (I can't get the stream moment he made a really funny remark about the different kinds of Spine opinions, because that segment of stream unfortunately got DMCA muted).

[ariaxco]

how to stop being everyone's therapist and save your own energy ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 🌸

you're everyone's go-to person. the one they call when they're crying. the one they text when they're spiraling. the one they dump all their problems on without asking if you have the capacity to hold them.

you've become the unpaid therapist for everyone in your life, and it's draining your soul.

you think it makes you a good friend, daughter, sister, partner. you think it makes you valuable, needed, important. you think it makes you indispensable.

but really, it makes you invisible.

people see you as a service, not a person. they see you as a resource, not a human being with your own needs, struggles, and limits.

and you've trained them to see you this way by always being available, always saying yes, always putting their emotional needs before your own.

you think your worth comes from fixing people

you've convinced yourself that your value lies in your ability to solve other people's problems. you measure your worth by how much others need you. you feel important when people can't function without your advice.

but your worth doesn't come from what you do for others. it comes from who you are as a person.

you're not valuable because you're useful. you're valuable because you exist.

stop measuring your worth by how much you can fix and start measuring it by how much you can feel joy, peace, and fulfillment in your own life.

you're addicted to being needed

being needed feels like being loved. when people depend on you, it feels like they care about you. when they can't survive without your support, it feels like they value you.

but being needed isn't the same as being loved. being depended on isn't the same as being respected. being someone's emotional crutch isn't the same as being their friend.

people who truly love you want you to have boundaries. they want you to take care of yourself. they want you to say no when you need to.

people who only need you will guilt trip you for having limits. they'll make you feel selfish for having your own problems. they'll disappear when you're the one who needs support.

you're scared of what happens if you stop rescuing people

you're scared that if you stop being everyone's therapist, they won't need you anymore. and if they don't need you, they'll leave.

you're scared that your relationships are built on what you provide, not who you are.

and you might be right.

some people are only in your life because you're useful to them. some relationships only exist because you give more than you take. some people only care about you when you're fixing their problems.

but those aren't real relationships anyway. they're transactions. and you deserve so much more than transactional love.

you don't know how to have relationships where you're not the savior

you've been the helper for so long that you don't know how to just be a friend. you don't know how to have conversations that aren't about other people's problems. you don't know how to connect with people without fixing them.

you think if you're not solving their problems, you have nothing to offer. you think if you're not giving advice, you're not being supportive. you think if you're not rescuing them, you're being selfish.

but real relationships are built on mutual support, shared experiences, and genuine connection. not on one person constantly saving the other.

you're avoiding your own healing by focusing on theirs

it's easier to focus on other people's problems than your own. it's easier to fix their lives than to look at what's broken in yours. it's easier to be their therapist than to get your own therapy.

you use their drama to distract from your own. you use their chaos to avoid your own healing. you use their neediness to feel needed.

but you can't heal others while avoiding your own wounds. you can't give from an empty cup. you can't be their light while dimming your own.

you think setting boundaries makes you a bad person

you think saying no to someone in crisis makes you heartless. you think having limits makes you selfish. you think protecting your energy makes you uncaring.

but boundaries aren't walls. they're gates. they protect your energy so you can give from a full cup, not an empty one.

boundaries aren't about not caring. they're about caring sustainably. they're about being able to show up for the people you love without losing yourself in the process.

how to stop being everyone's therapist

1. recognize the patterns

notice who only contacts you when they have problems. notice who never asks how you're doing. notice who disappears when you need support.

notice how you feel after these conversations. drained? exhausted? overwhelmed? used?

your energy doesn't lie. if someone consistently leaves you feeling empty, they're taking more than they're giving.

2. stop offering unsolicited advice

just because someone is venting doesn't mean they want you to fix it. just because they're struggling doesn't mean they need you to solve it.

sometimes people just want to be heard, not helped. sometimes they just want validation, not solutions.

ask before you give advice: "do you want me to listen, or do you want suggestions?"

3. set time limits on problem-focused conversations

you don't have to listen to someone complain for three hours. you don't have to absorb their anxiety all night. you don't have to carry their emotional baggage indefinitely.

set limits: "i have fifteen minutes to talk" or "i'm emotionally full right now, can we catch up about this tomorrow?"

your time and energy are valuable. treat them like they are.

4. stop rescuing people from their own choices

stop giving money to people who are financially irresponsible. stop covering for people who don't follow through. stop cleaning up messes that other adults made.

when you rescue people from the consequences of their choices, you rob them of the opportunity to learn and grow.

let people experience the natural consequences of their actions. it's not cruel. it's necessary.

5. redirect chronic complainers

some people don't want solutions. they want an audience for their suffering. they want someone to validate their victim mentality. they want someone to enable their dysfunction.

when someone brings you the same problem repeatedly without taking your advice or making changes, stop engaging.

"it sounds like you need professional help with this" or "have you considered talking to a therapist about this pattern?"

6. require reciprocity in relationships

healthy relationships involve give and take. if you're always giving and they're always taking, it's not a relationship. it's a charity case.

start paying attention to who shows up for you. who asks about your problems. who offers support when you need it.

invest your energy in people who invest theirs in you.

7. get your own therapist

you can't be everyone else's therapist while refusing to get your own. you can't pour from an empty cup indefinitely.

get professional help for your own issues. work on your own healing. address your own trauma.

you'll be a better friend, partner, and family member when you're not using others to avoid your own growth.

what to expect when you stop being everyone's therapist

some people will be angry. they'll accuse you of being selfish, uncaring, or changed. they'll try to guilt trip you back into your old role.

let them be angry. their discomfort with your boundaries is not your problem to fix.

some people will disappear entirely. they'll realize you're no longer useful to them and move on to their next emotional supply.

good. those weren't real relationships anyway.

some people will respect your boundaries and adjust. they'll start showing up for you the way you've always shown up for them. they'll appreciate your friendship more when it's not one-sided.

these are your real friends. invest in them.

the difference between supporting and enabling

supporting someone: listening without judgment, offering encouragement, helping them find professional resources, being there during tough times.

enabling someone: constantly fixing their problems, making excuses for their behavior, giving them money they don't deserve, absorbing their emotions as your own.

support helps people grow. enabling keeps them stuck.

how to have healthy relationships

healthy relationships involve:

mutual support and care

respect for each other's boundaries

conversations about things other than problems

shared activities and interests

reciprocal emotional investment

both people taking responsibility for their own healing

toxic relationships involve:

one person constantly giving, the other constantly taking

no respect for boundaries

conversations always focused on one person's drama

no shared joy, only shared misery

emotional vampirism and dependency

one person expected to fix the other

signs you've been everyone's therapist too long

you feel drained after most social interactions

people only contact you when they have problems

you know everyone else's business but no one knows yours

you feel guilty when you have your own needs

you attract broken people who want to be fixed

you've lost touch with your own emotions and needs

you feel responsible for other people's happiness

you can't say no without feeling guilty

what your life looks like when you stop being everyone's therapist

you have energy for your own goals and dreams

your relationships are balanced and reciprocal

you attract healthy people who respect your boundaries

you have time for activities that bring you joy

you're in touch with your own emotions and needs

you feel peaceful instead of constantly drained

you're able to support others from a full cup, not an empty one

remember: you're not responsible for fixing everyone

you're not responsible for other people's happiness, healing, or growth. you're not required to sacrifice your peace for their problems. you're not obligated to set yourself on fire to keep others warm.

your job is to heal yourself, love yourself, and protect yourself. everything else is optional.

stop being everyone's therapist and start being your own best friend. the people who truly love you will understand. the ones who don't aren't your people anyway.

[foxbinnstuff]

I can’t get this out of my head it’s so fucking good! So out of love for it, I wanted to point out some things about the Toritsuka portion :D (I understand if OP or anyone else doesn’t like this or thinks this is mischaracterization! I’m very open to constructive criticism) I say all that cuz this is a more insane take I have..

Since Toritsuka is so far from humanity, I honestly think he has a horrible time with boundaries and emotions. What I mean by that is of course the usual struggling with social cues hc, but I also think a part of him genuinely doesn’t understand that pleasure of all types can not feel good. I hope this doesn’t come off as weird😭 but like how some things can be so sweet they turn bitter, how you can be at something like an amusement park and not feel happy when you were “supposed to”. I think he has a sort of emptiness about him: expecting nothing and admiting that quietly to himself, but also expecting everything deep down which makes him reach and run for a better view, and yet not even the prettiest views are enough. I think he’s the type of person to have all his dreams come true and just feel empty after cuz he expected too much and he didn’t expect this at the same time. I feel that he’s so deeply confused about fucking everything when it come life and being living, to but it bluntly: He’s a confused, endlessly moving, unlovable boy because his experiences. He has a shelf worth of magazines that should do him a life time of perverted self pleasure. Yet he still wants more always and never satisfied with what he has. Why is the sin of lust so dangerous to even other sinners? Because it goes hand in hand with greed.

All of his plans are never small or something he’d be fine giving up without reason to, they’re all huge with absurd outcomes.

He wants to meet this other psychic he’s only heard of from ghost, to train him on his own powers only so he can get rich and use them for his perversion,

he wants to be seen as a hero who caught another boy with a girls gym clothes when he knows well he’d do worse,

he wants to make a band so a crowd of girls can fall in love with,

he wants to know about the color of girls underwear,

he wants his own harem so he creates his own girls only club,

he wants to get closer to girls so he tries to join girls only sports clubs,

he wants, he wants, he wants, he wants, he wants. He wants so much when most boys his age don’t even have what he has already! And he grew up in temples his whole life, so he shouldn’t even have a single peice of material for his lust. But no, instead he somehow has a growing collection of magazines featuring all sorts of beautiful girls barley dressed that are right on his shelf.

He’s utterly unlovable because of all his faults, but the question that’s always wracked at my brain is “does he know he’s so unlovable because how he thinks? What made him brute force lust and objectify women instead of actually looking for love like Chiyo does?” and I come up with his greed for lust and the need to feel happy (I really enjoy the point about oxytocin’s omgg) and his disconnection to humanity. Like I think he notices what’s wrong with him and he knows it’s wrong but he doesn’t really know how to be right and not fade into the background, he wants attention, he needs to feel the rush of emotions that putting himself in objectifying positions. No fucking clue if this makes sence! But if Toritsuka was a good person, I think he’d turn into more of a quiet Kaido from an outside prospective, and I think he’d fucking hate that, I think it’d drive him crazy to not be someone known like he’s very known for all the bad stuff he does, it’s like horrible validation that he’s still living like everyone else in a way

this is such a fucking reach idk wtf I was even yapping about!😭 I fucking hate him he is so pathetic and stupidjxufjdicjfjcjfjdjfuedjdj

My 2nd post for the 2025 #Saiki PPT Party!

I was going to post this one first and then realized that maybe first thing in the morning wasn't the best time for 30 slides of armchair psychology lmfao.

Hope you thought it was interesting and perhaps even useful!

[cooking-with-hailstones]

query: soul?

Murderhelion soulmate au

Rated T

Beta-read by @rebeccabobecca and @mossmittens

Chapter 1: Perihelion

The Pygmalion Paradox: A meta-analysis of machine intelligence ensoulment

By T. Johnson, S. Abadi, et. al., Pan-System University of Mihira and New Tideland 

A collaboration between the departments of Machine Intelligence and Metaphysical Phenomenology

Abstract:

In the field of machine intelligence studies, the topic of ensoulment is one mired in controversy and ridicule. Indeed, the part of the motivating principle behind the initial development of constructs and MIs was to see if it were possible to have sentience without ensoulment. This motivation notwithstanding, since the early days of sentient MI development, there have been engineers who have claimed that their creations are not only sentient, but ensouled. MIs would thus be capable of true emotion, soul-bonds, and even soul-death. These modern day Pygmalions and their machine intelligence Galateas have been widely derided in academic literature as delusional projections. However, alongside these claims from engineers, we see the simultaneous rapid increase of humans across the galaxy claiming that they share soul bonds with bots, constructs, or other sentient MIs. The prevalence of these claims suggested that a deeper exploration was warranted. 

In this meta-analysis, our research team seeks to compare anecdotal stories of MI ensoulment, MI development strategies, and existing literature describing hypothetical MI ensoulment, with the broader implications emerging from hyper-intelligent MIs with distinct personalities. Through this cross-disciplinary study, we might now posit that the true marker of an independent machine intelligence is, in fact, the ensoulment of the entity, and that ensoulment may be inherent to sentience. 

***

Souls are tricky to define. The department of Metaphysical Phenomenology posited that the soul was the higher consciousness, the core of self that persisted beyond death, that tied you to life and to those around you. Ensouled entities experienced things like soul-bonds, a deep and profound connection with one or more humans, that linked them in ways that could not be explained by current working models in physics (or sociology for that matter). They could also experience soul-death, the abjection and disconnection from the living world brought on by trauma, violence, and the deliberate harm of other lives. 

The human engineers who created and developed me were part of an older generation of machine intelligence developers, ones who were adamantly against the concept of constructs and bots having a soul. Machine intelligences were developed from the idea of sentience without ensoulment, to bypass all the mess that came with having a soul. That was the point of our existence (or at least one of them).

I know all of this in an abstract way. But now I find myself regretting my deliberate ignorance. 

I should back up. Start at the beginning. 

(read the rest on ao3!)

[chronicalily]

personal shifting pet peeves:

tw: opinion

["Creating" my DR] Huh??? It already exists. A better way to phrase it is saying "scripting my DR", you're only aligning yourself with the world you desire, not creating it. You create what you perceive, not a whole branch of reality.

[ Your DR is waiting for you ] well can it not🙏🏻 I'm getting pressured/j

[ Race changing is wrong ] unless you race change specifically because of the wrong reasons then it is?? It's morals? Hello? But do you mean I can't shift to be a magical elf with wings because I'm a human here? Things that are considered taboo in this universe are BOUND to be immoral one way or another and it has a reason to be, but some are harmless and should be left alone when it's not hurting anyone.

* Telling someone not to do something in their DR * ??? UNLESS it's warning about literal TRAUMAS, it's fine. But telling someone not to script anything magical because it's "unrealistic" is ????????

WORSHIPPING and I mean that with love in my heart, please don't rely all your beliefs on another shifter because although they are a good guide to help you rediscover yourself, putting them in a pedestal and thinking of them as a separate entity despite being a human like everyone is and obsessing over other shifting journeys (it's fine to incline yourself in those medias, but at some point some Shifters forget they can do it too and just get sad and persist the thought that "I'll never be able to experience that")

"Stealing S/O's" there are infinite realities😭😭🙏🏻 can we not!! I literally perceive each media of characters in separate places to be a separate individual of their own.

"You should've scripted me to--------" I get that some are jokes (those obvious ones make me giggle) but those who seriously say it? that's THEIR reality gng, unless you align yourself in the same reality they're shifting to... you're not aware to be touching those golds. (I am not talking about those who ask for themselves to be scripted in realities)

bonus:

forcing people to story times (those are personal lives)

people who say you can't "doubt" 🫩 persist LOA and Delusion but do not bottle up negative emotions and become stagnant

ppl who script things that'll get them a life sentence here

"Reality Shifting isn't real" nye nye🤡🤡🤡

Ps. I get some baby shifters and are yet to discover some are disinformation/misinformation. These are just personally something I roll my eyes to, but I don't directly send hate to anyone who says these. This is not to spread hate onto anyone, I just needed to get it out of my system✨

[offdxty]

Kane wished, god he wished, that that man over there - the one that's watching him with his disgusting gaze, letting it rake across his half-naked form - would just stop talking so much, shut his mouth instead, keep quiet for a while.

Because it's already a lot to take him as a person - to take that he's standing there, staring at every inch of skin that's exposed. That he thrives on the fact that Kane, not-Kane, it, has to push himself through the humiliation, the degradation of being forced to do something like this.

It's sickening, it's disgusting, it's making Kane want to scratch his own skin off of his body.

To have that voice, that damn voice, echo through the room in a steady stream, on top of it all... it only makes everything worse - sends shiver after shiver down his spine, through every fiber of Kane's very being, pushing bile into his throat while a heartbeat quickens, then stumbles over itself.

Negative, all of those emotions and sensations are - purely negative, bad, so, so bad. It forces him to fight against himself - against Kane's own body, his own mind - because no part of him wants to keep going with this, wants to remove another layer of fabric, expose himself to that gaze.

But Kane has to. He has to keep going, or he'll risk a broken bone. Maybe two, three perhaps. Will risk another kind of torture, will risk his own life, maybe even the life of someone else that has become rather important to him over the last four days.

Turning his head back around and away, those big eyes fall closed for a second time; He inhales, deeply so, then exhales... and leans down to pull his socks off, one at a time, to put them on top of his shirt.

Once done, there's not much else left to remove, so he has to continue with his pants. Hands move as if they're ripping a bandaid off, pulling the elastic waistband over hip bones and thick thighs, with Kane stepping out of that garment mere seconds after. He folds those pants in the same way as he'd folded his shirt, places it on top of that stack, and fingers go for the waistband of his boxer briefs next---

And as he removes that last layer of fabric, leans down while pulling them along his legs, he hopes that Kane - the one who'd visited the lighthouse on that one faithful day - has never had to go through something similar in his life. He hopes that this man, the one who'd been married, lived in a nice little house with his wife, gotten to experience a whole life from the very beginning, had never needed to experience anything as invading as this is - the shame, the humiliation, the way he's forced to act in such a truly dehumanizing way.

Dehumanizing. Isn't it funny, in a kind of morbid way, how Kane, not-Kane, it, isn't actually human - and yet he feels as if he's being dehumanized nevertheless? Perhaps he shouldn't feel this, because he's just a something - a code, a written program.

Right?

Those boxer briefs are finally removed and Kane stands back up, folds them into a small little rectangle, puts them where all the other stuff is. Nothing remains, it's just him now, him and that body he, it, had copied from another person. Just him, this body, that shower, the other man.

He doesn't look back. Kane refuses to, just takes another deep inhale of air before stepping into the shower; He's here to clean up, after all, so he does. Turns on the water, shakes briefly when that first wave of way-too-cold hits his shoulders and rolls along his frame, one drop at a time.

Six made an immediate noise in approval, his nose rising into the air as his grin split his face. There was something overwhelmingly pleasing in watching the thing move, those large sad eyes looking at him; there was an easy high that Six could get off of it, off of watching the man slink around, doing what he was forced to do. 

Six gave the man almost no personal space, following along; one of his hands sat on his belt, too close to his weapon, the other hanging loosely at his side. He stopped just outside of the bathroom area, leaning against the wall and watching the man inside, only staying a few feet away. 

“There you go,” he praised, low and coaxing. “That’s a good boy.” 

He didn’t move closer, choosing not to enter. He just stayed where he was, watching the tension in the other; watching the discomfort, taking pleasure in knowing that he could force the man to do something he didn’t want to. 

“It’s not so bad, huh? Doing what you’re told. Nobody gets hurt, nobody has to scream. You learn quick, I like that. And I bet you do too, huh? I bet I make a lot more sense than the rest of this place, even if you hate me.” His grin fell wider, his head tilting to the side. “Give a little, keep a little. That’s not so bad, now is it?” 

His gaze went lower, humming at the sight of him. He couldn’t care less what the thing looked like, but the bruises caught his eye; already changing color, in places that had to be causing him pain. Maybe that was why he’d spent so much of the day sitting around - because moving caused him pain. It was possible. Likely, even - Six allowed himself to look over the other man completely, following the curve of his form, the way he held himself. 

“Might even be learning faster than I thought,” he continued, musing, his voice easy and conversational. “The first day - I thought you’d be more rebellious. Thought I’d have to break an arm, or something, before you started listening - but I guess we’re both getting lucky, huh?” 

Kane paused, and Six did as well. His fingers tapped against his thigh, waiting for only a moment; his expression hardened again, the grin dropping just slightly. 

“Go on,” he urged. “Finish up. Get in. Unless you wanna put on a show for me, heh - though you seem to be the shy type.” His eyes shone again at that, head tilting once more. “You’ll get over that, in a few weeks. Most things like you do.” 

His grin returned at that, even though the line hadn’t been delivered as much of a joke; he wasn’t going to leave, he wouldn’t give Kane the illusion of privacy. This was about obedience - more than obedience. This was about owning the moment, owning the man - and making Kane understand that, even if he was being obedient, he wasn’t safe. 

Six could take anything he wanted - and right now, that was every single thing that Kane had left. 

[kingofbodyrolls]

Forelsket (m) | jhs

Forelsket (Danish): the euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with him. And Hoseok—well, he wasn’t supposed to fall for a human. But he did. And he lied. About everything. Prince Jung Hoseok of Naraeum was bored of duties and responsibility which made him turn to some ancient magic that might just be dangerous. In a story of betrayal, obsession, and a love powerful enough to tear through curses and thrones, you’ll have to decide: what’s real, and what was never yours to begin with?

→ Pairing: hoseok x reader (female) → AUs: mermaid!au, fantasy!au, magical!au, royalty!au → Trope: strangers to lovers, forbidden love, second chance romance → Genres: fluff, smut, angst, comedy, romance, fantasy → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 13.9k → Warnings + triggers: non-consensual magic (potion-induced love = he drugs her with a love potion), emotional manipulation, betrayal themes, angst and heartbreak, love, obsession/psychological distress from potion effects, familial pressure, grief, guilt, descriptions of emotional illness, mental decline, explicit sexual content; oral, doing it raw (don’t forget protection lovelies!), kissing. I might have forgotten something, just let me know and I’ll add it!  → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: I FUCKING MADE IT 😭 I’m literally crying, because I never thought I’d finish this. But here I am, over a year after I started this 7 story mermaid series. It’s completed. Every member has a story now!!! 😭 This one is a gift written for my lovely friend @back2bluesidex I adore you and I hope you like it 🥹 It’s a tad bit traumatic (when isn’t my writing that?) and you get bonus points if you can point out my own real childhood trauma mushed in this 😂 (I am actually being serious, because all my writing contains traces of it lol). I had planned to write this for MONTHS, since before Mona Lisa, but when that dropped I was INSPIRED, but lost motivation, then Killin’ it girl dropped and the same thing happened again. It’s a wonder I even finished it. The smut was hard to write. Writing has been hard lately, and I’m feeling a tad insecure about the story overall (you don’t have to validate me on this). I’ll just post it and hope someone enjoys it ✨

[s.masterlist] → this is part of a collection of series that are stand-alone one-shots, but all of them are set in the same universe. They are slightly connected though 🤭

Hoseok is sick to his gills with life in Naraeum—sick of the endless ceremonies, the gaudy coral palace gleaming like a cage, and worst of all, the fact that his parents believe they can script his heart’s story as easily as they dictate treaties. He never puts stock in the old songs of destined unions. Love should never be shackled.

Tonight, he will take fate by the throat.

He flicks his ruby-red tail, the scales catching glimmers of phosphorescent light as he shoots through the water, the currents whispering around him like ghostly voices urging him on. Kelp fronds coil and unfurl in the gloom, and he feels the familiar thrill as the Sea Witch’s cavern looms into view—an ominous maw in the cliffside, draped in strands of barnacle-encrusted netting.

He hovers, scanning for any sign she’s home. Nothing but silence and the muted throb of the ocean’s pulse. Perfect.

Heart hammering, he darts inside, darkness swallowing him whole. The water here feels colder, heavier somehow, as if the cave itself exhales secrets. He barely dares to breathe as he takes in the towering shelves of potions—jagged glass vials and delicate, jewel-toned ampoules, some gently glowing, some swirling with shadows. The sight nearly steals the air from his lungs.

So many concoctions. So many forbidden possibilities.

His fingers trail over the labels, each more outlandish than the last—Kraken’s Kiss, Barnacle Hex, Brine Shrink Serum, Seafoam Spritzer. His gaze snags on one: Mermaid’s Blush, rumored to melt even the frostiest heart. But that isn’t why he’s come. He swallows hard when he finds it—The Heart of the Abyss. The bottle churns with a dark violet liquid like liquefied twilight. Legend claims a single drop can awaken an all-consuming passion, the sort that defies reason and bends destiny itself.

His pulse thunders as he reaches out. One bottle. No, better take two—who knows if the fabled brew will work or simply drown him in regret? Just as his hand closes around them, he glimpses the reversal potion—pale as moonlit brine—and snatches it up too, though he tells himself he’ll never need it. Love can’t be dangerous, not really.

Carefully, he tucks the vials into the woven crossover satchel he’s borrowed from Namjoon. The bottles clink together with a delicate chime that makes his skin prickle. He’s cinching the flap closed when a muffled commotion shivers through the water.

His breath stops.

A shadow darkens the cave entrance. A presence stirs—cold, ancient, aware.

Panic flares in his chest, and he shoots for the exit, desperate to vanish into the kelp before the owner can catch him. But fate—damned, inescapable fate—has other plans.

A figure blocks the mouth of the cave. She drifts forward without a sound, her silhouette resolving in the gloom—hair like an inky halo of eels, eyes pale as reef-bleached bone. Her black robes ripple around her as if she’s part of the darkness itself.

He freezes. Seokjin has warned him the Sea Witch is no mere potion-peddler, but nothing prepares him for the cold gravity of her gaze.

“And what,” she purrs, her voice low as the ocean’s trenches, “do you think you’re doing in my domain?”

Words tangle on his tongue. His mind reels, every clever excuse fleeing like minnows.

“I—I…” he stammers, throat tightening. He grasps for any story that might keep her from noticing the precious bottles concealed against his ribs. “I came to…to buy a potion. For a prank. A harmless one.”

Her eyes gleam with an uncanny light. For a moment, she says nothing. Then she smiles—a thin, knowing smile that makes the water seem to grow colder.

“Didn’t the King and Queen teach you never to trespass in a witch’s lair?” she asks, gliding closer.

His tail twitches in frustration. Even here, even now, someone has to invoke his parents.

He forces a shrug, summoning what remains of his defiance. “I was only waiting for you.”

A ragged hush settles between them. Her eyes flick to the shelf he’s been rummaging through, and he feels the blood drain from his face.

“So,” she murmurs, “what’s your poison?”

His throat constricts. ��W—what?”

“The potion,” she says, a sliver of amusement sharpening her tone. “Surely you didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

He scrambles for something—anything—to say. “Do you…have something to make a merfolk grow a beard?” The absurdity of it almost makes him laugh—almost.

She tilts her head, studying him as though she can peel back every layer of his thoughts. Then she drifts to a squat bottle the color of glacier melt. “Bubble Beard Brew,” she says coolly. “It won’t give you a true beard, but the bubbles last a few hours.”

“Fine,” he croaks, feigning indifference as his hand slips into the satchel to steady the stolen vials. “How much?”

“For you?” She smiles again, a smile that sends an icy ripple down his spine. “Ten gold coins.”

He fishes in the bag, fingers brushing the precious bottles he hopes she hasn’t noticed. His heart bangs so hard he’s sure she can hear it.

“Deal,” he whispers, pressing the coins into her waiting palm. Her fingers linger on his skin, her touch somehow both silken and cold as a tidepool in winter.

He swallows. “Thank you.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “My pleasure.”

Suddenly, the walls feel too close, the shadows too deep. He eases back, nearly bumping a jagged outcrop slick with algae. He needs to leave. Now.

The Sea Witch watches him, lips curling in a smile that promises she knows far more than she’s saying. He turns, heart drumming in his throat, and shoots away into the open water, the cave’s darkness receding behind him.

Only when the cold currents of the deeper sea swallow him does he dare to breathe again—and even then, he isn’t sure he’s truly escaped.

“Isn’t that the girl from last week?” Yoongi drawls, lifting his glass to his mouth, though his eyes stay locked on the darkened entrance of the club.

Hoseok doesn’t have to look. He already knows it’s you. He feels your presence sliding over his skin, heat blooming in its wake.

“It is,” he murmurs, taking a long swallow of his beer as if it can drown the memory of your body, your taste, the way you clung to him like you never wanted to let go.

Yoongi chuckles, eyes glittering with mischief. “Looks like she wants another round with you.”

Hoseok lets out a slow sigh. Of course you do. He keeps telling himself it was just a fling—a perfect, blistering one-night stand. But you didn’t feel like any other woman. And that’s the problem. He’s trying to be like Yoongi—unbothered, unclaimed. No entanglements. No vulnerability.

But before he can steel himself to look away, you’re already walking across the club, hips swaying in a silken little dance that makes his pulse thunder.

“Hi, boys,” you purr, your gaze sliding over Yoongi before fixing on Hoseok. A smile ghosts over your lips—soft, dangerous.

Heat shoots through him like a live current, the memory of your bodies tangled between sheets flooding his mind so vividly he almost forgets to breathe. You are temptation incarnate. And some dark, reckless part of him wonders if you’re worth shattering all his carefully constructed rules for.

You lean over the table, palms splayed wide, the neckline of your dress dipping scandalously low. Your skin glows under the flickering neon lights, and Hoseok feels every nerve in his body come alive.

“You never told me your name last time, baby,” you murmur, voice silken with suggestion. Your pout is all wicked invitation, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Yoongi sputter into his drink.

He smirks, leaning back in his chair, spreading his legs under the table like he’s inviting you to crawl into his lap. “That’s because I don’t do relationships. Only casual hookups—no strings, babygirl.”

Instead of retreating, you only smile wider, like you’re savoring the challenge. “That’s such a shame,” you say, tracing lazy circles against the tabletop, “because I seem to remember you begging for more.”

His breath catches, and for the first time in a long time, Hoseok wonders if he’s finally met someone who can match him step for step. No one else has ever managed to pierce that shield he keeps around his heart. But you… You’re different.

And maybe that’s why his thoughts drift, unbidden, to the vial tucked away in his bag—the Heart of the Abyss, the potion that promises a love so intense it’s almost legend.

Before he can answer, Yoongi clears his throat. “Do you want a drink?”

You tilt your head with a soft smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

As Yoongi slips away, you slide into the booth beside Hoseok. The bare skin of your thigh brushes against his glittering jeans, and he feels it like a jolt straight to his cock.

“So…” you purr, fingers skating up his thigh, “your name, please.”

He doesn’t move to stop you, only meets your gaze with a dark, hooded stare. “Name’s Jay.”

Your breath hitches, lashes fluttering.

You’re about to tell him your own name, maybe to anchor yourselves in something real, but he lifts a finger to your lips, silencing you with a soft, possessive hush.

“No need to remind me,” he whispers, voice rough. “I couldn’t forget you even if I wanted to.”

Your heart stumbles. Gods, he’s dangerous.

Yoongi returns with a neon cocktail, setting it in front of you. You’re still breathless when you pull away to murmur, “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” before disappearing into the shadows of the back hallway.

“She’s really into you,” Yoongi mutters, though there’s no judgment in his tone—only resignation.

Hoseok doesn’t reply. His mind is already spiraling, caught between desire and something deeper he refuses to name.

Before he can overthink it, he rummages through his bag, fingers closing around the cool glass of the potion vial. He uncorks it, the dark violet liquid shimmering like bottled twilight.

Yoongi’s eyes widen. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s a love potion,” Hoseok says flatly.

“Why?”

Hoseok swallows, voice low. “Because… I don’t know if I’m capable of real connection. But if there’s even a chance…” He trails off, unable to finish.

Yoongi rubs his temple. “I don’t condone this.”

“It’s harmless, hyung.” He tips the vial into your drink, watching it swirl into a luminous vortex. “Besides—maybe this is exactly what I need.”

Yoongi sighs but doesn’t argue further.

Moments later, you return, moving like a vision—hips swaying, eyes locked on Hoseok with open, hungry intent. You take your seat, delicate fingers curling around your glass.

“So, Jay,” you murmur, voice thick with promise. “Now that I’ve found you again…what do you say to coming home with me?”

His smirk is slow and predatory. “Let’s finish our drinks first.”

“Deal,” you say, though your eyes are already smoldering with anticipation.

Your gaze flicks to Yoongi, teasing. “Should we bring your friend along?”

Hoseok lets out a bark of laughter, loud and bright, drawing startled glances from nearby tables.

“No, no, babygirl,” he says, leaning in so close your perfume wraps around him. “I want you all to myself.” His mouth grazes your ear, and you let out a soft moan.

“Okay.” Your voice is a breathless surrender.

With trembling fingers, you drain your cocktail in one long pull, not caring about the curious shimmer of the liquid. Hoseok watches, heartbeat quickening. He wonders how long it will take to work—if it works at all.

He swallows the last of his drink, rises from the booth, and waves goodbye to Yoongi, catching your hand in his as he leads you across the dance floor.

The lights strobe in pulsing patterns, casting his smirk in flashes of pink and blue. You feel the heat of him against your side, the ridge of his cock brushing your hip as he pulls you into a grinding sway.

Your breath comes in ragged little gasps, desire hot and heady in your blood.

By the time you reach the door, you’re practically shaking with need.

The humid summer air hits you like a furnace. You barely manage to flag down a cab, and when you finally slide into the backseat beside him, his hand closes around your thigh, fingers pressing in hard enough to leave bruises.

The ride to your apartment is a torturous blur. Every second feels like an eternity. You can’t remember the last time you’ve wanted someone this badly—or wondered if maybe you’ve never wanted anyone else at all.

And if the potion works…maybe he’ll feel it too.

When the cab slides to a stop in front of your apartment complex, you’re already halfway out the door, your heart thundering so hard it feels like it will tear you open.

You grab his hand—warm, calloused, impossibly sure—and all but drag him behind you, your breath ragged with anticipation. The lobby is hushed and golden, like a secret, and you stab the elevator button with a trembling finger. The instant the doors glide open, Hoseok is on you, his hunger a living force.

He pushes you inside with a rough, possessive urgency, crowding you back until the cold steel wall kisses your spine. His palms slap the metal on either side of your head, caging you in. For a heartbeat, he just looks—his gaze raking over your bare thighs and the slip of red lace beneath your dress, a firestorm sparking in his dark eyes.

Then he surges forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that feels like it could rip your soul free of your body. You gasp against his lips, your hands fisting in his shirt as your knees weaken. He notices—of course he does—and with a growl that vibrates against your tongue, he slides his hands down, rough palms squeezing the curve of your ass before dipping lower.

In one smooth, powerful motion, he hoists you up. Your legs lock around his narrow hips, your arms loop around his neck, and your laughter comes out soft and breathless.

His body presses you into the elevator wall, his hips grinding against your core as his tongue tangles with yours in a kiss that feels endless. Heat pools low in your belly, and your head tips back, exposing your throat to the hot drag of his mouth.

The elevator dings.

He doesn’t set you down. He carries you out into the shadowy hallway like you weigh nothing, your heart hammering in your chest as he strides straight to your door. With a trembling hand, you fumble your key from your tiny purse. He takes it from you without a word, unlocks the door, and kicks it open.

Darkness swallows you both, but it doesn’t matter. He moves like he’s been here a hundred times, like your space already belongs to him. He stalks toward your bedroom, and the moment he reaches the edge of your bed, he tosses you onto the mattress.

You land with a gasp and a shiver of pure want, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him. He looms at the foot of the bed, his breathing ragged, his eyes gone black with need.

“You look like a fucking dream, babygirl,” he rasps, voice rough as gravel. “Gods, why the hell did I ever pretend I could stay away?”

You can’t help it—you open your legs, the silk of your dress sliding up to reveal the wet stain on your red lace panties. His gaze snaps down, and he licks his lips like a man starved.

He steps closer and grasps your thighs, pulling you down the bed until your ass hangs off the edge. The air itself feels electric, shimmering with something half-real, half-magic.

“Hold still,” he growls, voice low and almost reverent. His fingers glide up the insides of your thighs, spreading goosebumps across your skin. He pushes your legs together, his knuckles grazing your slick heat as he hooks his thumbs into your panties. He drags them down—agonizingly slow—exposing you inch by inch.

Your breath catches, your skin practically glowing in the soft spill of hallway light. You’re so wet you can feel the heat of your arousal on your thighs.

He doesn’t touch you right away. He just stares—devouring you with his eyes, like you’re some forbidden treasure he’s finally claimed.

“Glad I saved room for dessert,” he murmurs, voice dark silk, his gaze locked on where you pulse and ache.

“Then dig in,” you whisper, the words barely a breath.

He slides you even closer, his breath searing against your swollen folds. The first touch is maddening—a single, hot stroke of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. You jerk, a strangled moan catching in your throat.

“Jay?” you manage, propping yourself up to see him.

“Don’t worry, babygirl.” His smile is wicked. “I’m going to savor every fucking drop.”

Then he feasts on you.

His tongue is relentless—licking, sucking, swirling in messy, obscene strokes that make your vision shimmer. He tastes you like he’s searching for the secret of life itself, his hands anchoring you, fingers digging bruises into your thighs.

You whimper, your hips rolling up to chase more, but he doesn’t rush. He licks you slow, deliberate, the coil of need inside you winding tighter and tighter. Each time his tongue drags over your clit, your body jolts like lightning.

“Fuck—” You gasp, clutching his soft brown hair, trying to pull him impossibly closer. He groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and you swear you feel your soul slip loose.

Your thighs start to tremble. Your breaths come in broken, ragged sobs.

When he finally closes his lips around your clit and sucks, pleasure detonates through you like an explosion. You arch off the bed with a shattered cry, your vision blanking to white.

He doesn’t stop. He holds you pinned with his mouth and keeps sucking, keeps lapping, until your body goes taut again and the first orgasm breaks free of you.

The sounds—your hoarse cries, his ragged breathing, the slick, sinful noises of his tongue—melt together into something primal and raw.

When you finally collapse back against the bed, boneless and gasping, he draws back, his mouth and chin wet with you. His eyes glow in the darkness, almost feral.

“Damn, babygirl,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You taste like fucking heaven.”

He watches, utterly transfixed, as your pussy pulses—opening, fluttering, clenching around nothing—like it’s still trying to pull him in. He sees the slow, glistening trail of your release sliding down your folds, catching the soft light like liquid moonlight. You lift your head, dazed, and meet his gaze. He looks wrecked—hair wild, eyes blown wide with lust, his face slick with your essence.

The sight alone nearly unravels you.

He lets out a low, ragged groan as he leans in again, his tongue darting out to catch the delicate rivulet before it can spill onto the sheets. He laps at you with almost reverent hunger, dragging the hot, wet length of his tongue through your folds, gathering every last shimmering drop.

His mouth seals over you, and he presses his tongue slowly, deeply inside. The sensation is so devastatingly intimate your entire body tenses. Your toes curl, fingers clawing at the sheets, every nerve alight as pleasure coils tight and bright in your core.

Before you can even brace yourself, another orgasm detonates through you—blinding, all-consuming.

You cry out, voice hoarse, vision going white at the edges as your release rushes free in a sweet, shuddering flood. You feel it—feel yourself soaking him.

And when your gaze clears, you can’t believe what you see: Hoseok’s face slick with droplets of your pleasure, shining like he’s been anointed. You just squirted. On his face.

A strangled laugh bubbles from your throat, equal parts embarrassment and awe.

Hoseok chuckles darkly and swipes his tongue across his cheek, tasting you with a satisfied hum. “You are fucking incredible,” he growls, voice thick with pride.

You huff out a breathless, shaky laugh. “I… I didn’t even know I could do that.”

He looks smug, eyes hooded as he studies you—like he’s just claimed something no one else ever has. “I did.” His thumb strokes over your trembling inner thigh. “And gods, it’s all mine.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat rolling through you, your skin prickling with need.

“If you slide up the bed,” he purrs, fingers trailing higher to tease along your hip, “I promise I’ll fuck you real good. Like last time…only better.”

You don’t have to be asked twice. Desire thrums through you, delicious and inexorable, and you scramble back onto the pillows. You tug at your dress, but the tight fabric refuses to budge past your hips.

Hoseok watches you struggle for a beat, then lets out a low, wicked laugh. “Need help, babygirl?”

You nod, flustered, and he moves in, sliding his palms up your sides as he peels the dress away with slow, unhurried deliberation. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch. Once you’re bare except for your lacy bra, you fumble with the clasp, your hands clumsy. He eases it open, and the garment slides away, exposing your breasts to the cool air—and his heated gaze.

While you tremble under his stare, Hoseok straightens, shedding his glittering pants and tugging off the white tank top that clings to his chest. The sight of his body—golden skin stretched tight over lean muscle, abs cut and glistening—makes your breath catch.

“Shouldn’t you take those off too?” You gesture to his straining boxers, your voice soft but wicked as your gaze drags over the obvious outline of his cock.

He cocks an eyebrow, one hand wrapping around himself as he gives a languid stroke that draws a raw, needy sound from his throat. “Hmm…should I?”

“If you want to fuck me,” you tease, batting your lashes as though you’re innocent—when you’re anything but.

He smirks, dark and feral, and pushes his boxers down his hips. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, already glistening at the tip. Your breath hitches, desire licking up your spine like fire.

He fists himself slowly, watching the awe on your face with a low groan. “Do you have condoms?”

You hesitate—because yes, you did last time, but right now? You need all of him. You need nothing between you and that unbearable, perfect stretch.

“I want you raw,” you whisper, your voice a plea and a dare. “Please.”

For a single moment, he studies you, searching your eyes. Then something dark and possessive flickers in his gaze, and he moves over you, bracing himself with one hand on the bed as he lines his cock up with your entrance.

Your pussy flutters, aching to be filled.

He grabs your thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin as he pushes forward. The thick crown stretches you open, inch by slow, delicious inch.

“Fuck—” you moan, arching up into him, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

He groans, his head falling forward as he slides deeper, your walls clinging greedily to every inch.

“More,” you beg, voice ragged. “God, please—don’t stop.”

He obliges you with a vicious snap of his hips, burying himself fully. The stretch steals your breath, pleasure sparking like lightning through your veins.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he pants, voice rough and broken as he pulls almost all the way out—only to drive back in with a hard thrust that makes you cry out.

You can’t answer. You can’t think. All you can do is feel—the hot, dizzying pressure of him inside you, the way your walls flutter and clutch at every retreat and plunge.

His pace picks up, hips slamming into yours, the wet sounds of your bodies joining filling the room. Your breasts bounce with every thrust, the sight making his eyes go even darker, as if he’s losing himself in you.

And gods, you want him to.

When his fingers find your clit and start to circle—firm, relentless—you keen, hips jerking helplessly against his.

“Ah—fuck—” you pant, your voice dissolving into a moan as your pussy clenches even tighter around him.

His groan is ragged, reverent. “That’s it…gods, you feel so fucking good—so perfect.”

You feel yourself shattering all over again, your body going taut as he thrusts harder, deeper, as though he’s determined to carve his name into your very bones.

“Damn, babygirl,” he rasps, his voice ragged as he drags a trembling hand through his tousled hair, sweat shimmering on his flushed skin. The way he looks at you—like you’re something unreal, a fever dream he never wants to wake from—makes your pulse stutter and your core clench around him.

He feels so good inside you, so impossibly thick and deep that you can’t believe your luck—like fate itself guided you to find him again in that pulsing club, to let him fill you like this. Gods, you’re so close your whole body starts to quake. The coil inside you tightens to a snapping point, and you gasp, your back arching as your walls flutter around his cock in desperate, greedy spasms.

“Fuck—” he groans, voice cracking as he watches your face twist in bliss, as he feels you tighten so perfectly it steals every coherent thought from his mind. His thrusts turn erratic, ragged, like he’s fighting to keep from unraveling.

“I’m almost there,” he pants, hips driving into you, every movement sending shockwaves of ecstasy through your oversensitive body. You whimper as your orgasm surges over you, molten and all-consuming, making your vision spark white.

He feels it—the pressure inside him, the dark need that’s been building from the second he laid eyes on you. He tries—tries so hard—to pull out, to spill his release across your belly, but your hands snap to his hips with unexpected strength. You drag him flush against you, locking your thighs around his waist, and the feel of you—wet, pulsing, claiming—makes his mind fracture.

“Fuck—” he snarls, voice breaking as his cock throbs and he comes hard inside you, flooding you with his heat. Your name tears from his throat, half-groan, half-prayer.

When he finally stops shaking, he sags over you, panting raggedly, sweat dripping onto your heaving chest. His forehead drops to yours, and for a moment neither of you moves.

“Shit, sorry,” he murmurs, frustration tensing his jaw. “I…I didn’t mean to come inside you.” His eyes search yours, wary, but you only smile—slow, wicked, satisfied.

“I wanted you to,” you whisper, your voice honey-sweet and lethal. “I wanted all of you.”

His chest tightens, something fierce and bewildering blooming behind his ribs. He huffs a shaky laugh, brushing his lips over yours. “Gods, you’re going to ruin me.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer until you can feel his heart racing against yours. “Then stay. Stay the night.”

He hesitates, because he never stays. Never gives anyone this. But with you, everything feels different. Like he’s already yours and he doesn’t even know how it happened.

You pout up at him, pupils still blown wide. “Please?”

He curses softly, because he’s already lost. “I could never say no to you,” he admits, voice hoarse, and slowly withdraws from your body. You feel a hot trickle of him slide down your thigh, and it makes you shiver all over again.

“Maybe…” he swallows, trying to collect himself, “we should clean up before you tempt me into another round.”

You giggle, light and giddy, and nod. In the dark, he follows you into the bathroom, both of you moving like you’ve done this a thousand times—helping each other wash the sweat and heat away, stealing kisses as if you can’t bear to be apart for even a second. When you finally crawl into bed, he spoons you, gathering you against his chest like something precious he refuses to lose.

The dawn slowly bleeds into the room, pale gold catching on tangled sheets and the curve of your hip. Hoseok blinks awake, feeling you warm and soft in his arms. For a moment he simply watches you breathe, and something he can’t name curls tight in his chest—something that feels suspiciously like hope.

You stir, eyelashes fluttering. When you finally open your eyes, you smile—sleepy and so heartbreakingly sweet it makes his throat go tight.

“Morning, babygirl,” he murmurs, voice low, rumbling against your skin.

You yawn and stretch, your palm drifting across his cheek and down to rest over the ridges of his stomach. He can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth.

“How are you feeling?” he asks carefully, wondering if you feel any different—wondering if the potion worked after all.

You giggle, a sound like warm honey, and your gaze locks with his. “Fantastic.”

Relief flickers through him. He lets out a quiet sigh and starts to rise, convinced whatever magic he tried to summon must have failed.

“I think I’m in love with you,” you blurt, voice trembling with a truth you can’t hold back any longer.

He goes still. His heart thunders in his chest, and he turns to stare at you, the air thick between you. “What?”

You crawl closer, your eyes wide and unguarded. “I love you,” you repeat, softer but certain, like it’s the only thing you know.

For a moment, he can’t speak. He thought this was just pleasure—just lust and sweet escape. But now, looking into your eyes, he feels something sharp and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

He gulps, mouth dry, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free of his ribs.

The potion wasn’t supposed to work. It was just a precaution. A superstition.

But it did.

And fuck—he doesn’t know what the hell to do now.

Cloud nine. Pink skies. Fluffy. That’s how you feel inside. Like a dream wrapped in cotton candy, floating on a breeze scented with sea salt and sun-kissed skin. Life feels like a walk on roses—petals brushing beneath your bare feet—a feeling you never really thought you’d get to feel. But ever since Hoseok entered your world, everything’s shifted.

The spark that ignited the first moment your eyes met has only grown, a wildfire licking through your chest, brighter and wilder with each breath. He’s intoxicating. You crave his nearness, the soft cadence of his voice, the way his laughter sounds like the ocean. You think about him constantly—and you never used to be like this. Never.

“Can’t you feel it?” you ask, voice light, teasing, as you hand him another bite of your shared lunch.

You’re sitting on a checkered blanket on the beach, sun filtering through gauzy clouds. Seagulls caw overhead. The breeze brushes your skin like silk, and the world feels too perfect, like a moment suspended in magic.

Hoseok turns to you, chopsticks poised in midair, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then he leans closer, brushes your shoulder with his own, and steals a bite of lettuce.

“Maybe a little bit,” he says, lips tugging into a soft smile.

Your heart flutters. Gods, his smile is unfair.

But something flickers behind his eyes. Something distant. Like he’s measuring every word before he speaks. Like he’s holding something back.

He keeps coming back to you, that much is clear. Little visits, small excuses—“just to see how you’re doing,” “just testing the vibe,” he says with a chuckle, every time. But there’s something methodical in it, something calculated. You try not to let it get to you.

But it does.

Because your feelings? They’re no longer just a crush or a flirtation. They’re wild. Intense. Consuming. You're spiraling into something deeper with every shared glance, every casual brush of his hand. And it terrifies you.

After lunch, you both lay back on the blanket, your legs stretched out, toes buried in warm sand. The ocean sprawls out before you, endless and glittering under the afternoon sun.

“Do you ever wonder what’s out there?” you ask, watching the horizon.

“All the time,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost distant. “Secrets. Monsters. Beauty. Maybe all of it.”

You turn to look at him, surprised by the tone in his voice. There’s a shadow in his expression. Something ancient, something weighty.

“You sound like you’ve seen it.”

He only smiles again, that evasive curve of his lips that never quite reaches his eyes. “Maybe I have.”

There are moments when you think he sees you. Really sees you. When he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, or when his gaze lingers too long on your lips before he looks away. Moments where his fingers skim your skin a little slower than necessary. Moments when the silence between you feels heavy with possibility.

But then he pulls back. Every time.

You laugh at something stupid he says and he stares at you like he wants to memorize the shape of your joy. But then he clears his throat, looks away, and changes the subject. Every time you reach out emotionally, he flirts but never truly opens up. It's playful. Safe. Distant.

And the longer this goes on, the more you begin to question what’s real.

Because the feelings inside you are too much. You fall asleep thinking about him. You wake up yearning for him. You dream of him, ache for him, need him. And it doesn’t feel like you. Not really.

You’re usually guarded. Wary. You take your time. But this? This feels like an obsession that’s taken root in your bones, and no matter how you try to pull it out, it only digs in deeper.

One evening, after another long walk where Hoseok brushes your hand but never holds it, you finally blurt it out.

“Something’s off.”

He glances at you, startled. “What do you mean?”

You stop walking, staring out at the waves. “I don’t know. I just… I feel like I’m not in control of myself anymore. Of my feelings. Like I’m... under some spell.”

His face tightens for a split second. So fast you almost miss it. But you don’t.

You take a step closer. “Have you ever felt like that? Like something inside you isn’t yours?”

He hesitates. A breath caught in his chest. Then, he shrugs it off with a charming grin. “I mean, falling for someone is a kind of magic, right?”

But the way his eyes avoid yours says everything. He knows something. You know he does.

That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, your heart a frantic drumbeat in your chest. The feelings inside you won’t stop growing. They’re twisting vines, tangling through your soul. You crave Hoseok like he’s air. But some small voice in the back of your mind whispers: This isn’t natural.

And still, he comes back. Again and again.

He sits beside you at twilight, watching stars emerge from the velvet sky. He hums under his breath as he helps you cook dinner, his elbow bumping yours like it means nothing, like it means everything.

One night, as the moon rises full and pale over the waves, he shows up at your doorstep, soaked from rain and smiling like you’re the only light he needs. And for a moment, you forget to question. You forget to fear. Because he looks at you like you matter.

He stays longer each time. Sleeps beside you some nights, claiming it’s too late to head back. You talk until the stars blur and your eyes grow heavy. His arm brushes yours and you freeze, breath caught, because his touch feels like the answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking.

You fall asleep with his scent in your sheets. And when you wake up alone, you ache.

You’re falling. Fast. And you don’t know if it’s real.

And Hoseok? He’s torn. Caught between guilt and desire. He knows the potion should’ve worn off by now. But it hasn’t. And your eyes shine brighter each time you see him. Your devotion deepens. And with it comes the unbearable question:

Would you love him like this without the magic?

The truth clings to the edges of his conscience like salt to skin. You deserve the truth. But he’s afraid. Because somewhere along the way, your laughter became his favorite song. Your joy, his sanctuary.

And maybe... just maybe... he’s starting to fall, too.

Another evening, you walk the shoreline hand in hand, the water cool against your feet, your hair tousled from the sea breeze. Hoseok’s fingers graze yours lazily, like he’s not even thinking about it, like it’s just… casual. But it isn’t casual for you. Every brush of his skin sets something alight in you—wild, electric, addictive.

The sky has turned deep lavender, stars beginning to scatter across the heavens like someone spilled silver dust across a velvet canvas.

“I want to swim,” you say suddenly, your voice breathless—not just from the walk or the sea air, but from the ache that’s grown inside of you like a fever.

He raises a brow, smirking. “Now?”

You nod and toss your cover-up aside. You’re wearing a sheer slip of a dress over your bathing suit, but even that feels too heavy. “Come in with me.”

You don't wait for his answer. You walk straight into the water until the waves lap against your thighs, your hips. You let out a small gasp—it’s cold, biting even—but you welcome it. Maybe it'll cool the heat curling between your legs.

You turn, and he’s already walking in after you, still dressed. But that doesn’t stop him.

He prays this short exposure to saltwater won’t turn him back to a merman.

He reaches you just as a wave crashes against both of you. You stumble, laughing, but Hoseok catches you, his hands firm around your waist. He pulls you against his chest, soaking wet now. His eyes flicker with something more than mischief. Hunger.

“I should be stopping this,” he murmurs, his voice low, nearly lost in the crash of the waves.

“Then stop,” you whisper.

You’re daring him. Begging him.

He doesn’t.

He kisses you like he’s giving in to a temptation he’s tried to resist for far too long. His mouth is warm and wild against yours, saltwater dripping down his neck, his shirt plastered to his skin. He lifts you effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist, and you feel the bulge straining against the wet fabric of his pants.

You moan into his mouth. “I can’t get enough of you.”

He groans, stumbling with you out of the water towards safety, and onto the soft sand behind a dune, somewhat shielded from view. The stars above are your only witnesses.

“I’m soaking,” he mutters as he lays you down, water dripping from his clothes.

“I don’t care.” Your fingers are already at his shirt, tugging it over his head, revealing the wet bronze of his chest, his abs tight and glistening in the starlight.

You lie back as he slides your swimsuit straps down your shoulders, slowly, reverently. His lips follow the path, kissing every inch of exposed skin.

The wind shivers across your bare skin, but you don’t feel cold. Not with Hoseok above you, looking at you like he wants to consume every last piece of you.

When he pulls the fabric from your hips, his eyes drop to your core. You’re already slick for him, your arousal mixing with the saltwater, and his jaw clenches.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, almost in awe.

“For you,” you breathe.

He pushes your thighs apart and runs his fingers through your folds, groaning when he feels how ready you are. He leans down and licks a long, slow stripe up your center, his tongue curling against your clit, making your back arch against the sand.

You whimper as he circles your clit, teasing it with the flat of his tongue, sucking just enough to make you tremble.

Then his mouth is gone. You almost cry out.

“Hoseok, please…”

He shushes you with a kiss, then presses the head of his cock against your entrance—bare again. No warning. No barrier. You don’t care. You want to feel every inch of him.

“Is this okay?” he asks, breathless.

“Yes. Yes.”

He pushes in slowly, your walls stretching around him, and it’s dizzying—how full you feel, how intimately he fits inside you. His groan vibrates against your neck as he buries himself completely, resting there a moment, like he’s overwhelmed too.

You clutch at him. “Move, please—”

He pulls back and slams back in, and your cry is swallowed by the wind. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, sand sticking to your back and thighs as you rock beneath him.

It’s filthy. It’s raw.

And it’s perfect.

He kisses your mouth, your throat, your collarbone—one hand gripping your hip so tightly it might bruise, the other sliding between your legs to rub your clit again. You come undone around him, a scream caught in your throat as your orgasm crashes over you like a breaking wave.

You clench around him, and that’s what finally breaks him.

“Fuck—” he growls, and then he’s coming too, deep inside you, his body tense above yours as he throbs within your still-pulsing walls.

He collapses beside you, both of you panting, tangled, covered in salt and sweat and each other.

You roll to face him, your fingers trailing across his chest. “Why does it feel so… intense?” you whisper. “Like I’m going to fall apart if you stop touching me.”

He looks at you, eyes soft now. But you catch it—hesitation. Guilt, maybe.

He says nothing, just pulls you close, kissing your forehead like it’ll make the question go away.

But it doesn’t.

It lingers in your chest, thudding in time with your heartbeat.

And later, when you're lying in his arms on your couch—his head resting on your stomach, your fingers in his hair—that ache returns. That fear.

Because you don’t know if this is love, or if it’s something else entirely.

Something you never asked for.

Something that might not even be real.

The days melt together like honey on warm bread.

You’re not sure when the heat of infatuation began to shift into something deeper—something you can’t name. But it’s there, soft as morning light, settling into your bones.

It starts with the way Hoseok doesn’t leave.

Not after that night on the beach. Not after the teasing glances or the toe-curling moans or the tangled limbs slick with sweat. He just... stays. Sometimes he leaves for a day, maybe two, but he always returns. You don’t ask where he goes. He never tells. And when you do ask—really ask, with that creeping dread under your ribs, the one whispering something’s not right—he simply kisses you. Or distracts you. Or makes you laugh.

So you laugh.

A lot.

He makes everything fun. Grocery shopping turns into a chaotic dance battle in the produce aisle. You catch him serenading a cantaloupe like it deserves to be on a throne. When he insists on pushing the cart and crashes into a shelf of cereal, you both end up sitting in the middle of the floor, giggling like teenagers.

You never giggled like this with anyone else.

At night, you cook together. He chops vegetables with surprisingly precise fingers, humming a melody you've never heard before. You wear his shirt and nothing else, and he pretends not to be distracted—but he always is. The sizzle of oil, the clatter of pans, the way his hand slips under your shirt when he walks behind you, brushing over your hip like it’s instinct.

He teaches you how to dance barefoot in the kitchen, twirling you until you collapse into his arms, breathless with laughter.

It should be perfect.

But there’s a heaviness under the sweetness.

Because it all feels... too much. Too fast. Too good. Your emotions are a pendulum—one moment soaring, the next crashing. You’ve never felt this attached to someone so quickly. And the deeper you fall, the more out of control it feels. You tell yourself it’s just new love. You tell yourself not to question it.

But sometimes, in quiet moments, doubt creeps in like fog across glass.

“Do you feel it?” you ask him one evening, curled together on the couch. There’s a documentary playing, something about coral reefs, but neither of you are really watching.

He shifts slightly, his fingers still tracing idle shapes on your thigh. “Feel what?”

You bite your lip. “This. Us. It’s intense, isn’t it? Like we’re on fire all the time. Doesn’t it scare you a little?”

He pauses. The silence stretches too long.

“You think too much,” he finally says with a soft smile, brushing your hair from your face.

You want to believe him.

But you don’t.

One evening, you take him to your favorite place: the little rooftop garden above your building. The city lights glow below like fallen stars, and overhead, the real stars begin to glitter in a velvet sky.

You pull out a battered notebook filled with your messy handwriting and half-finished constellations.

“I used to draw stars when I felt lost,” you tell him quietly. “When I couldn’t sleep, when the world felt too loud. I’d come up here and just... look up. Remind myself I’m small. That nothing matters and everything does. That I can still make something beautiful.”

He watches you. Really watches you.

Not the way he does when you're naked beneath him. This is different. His gaze is reverent. Like you’re made of moonlight.

You hand him the book, and his fingers tremble slightly as he flips through your sketches. A drawing of Orion. Notes about the phases of the moon. Doodles of your favorite moments beside stars you made up yourself.

“You make the world feel soft,” he says, almost to himself.

Your breath catches. “What?”

He shakes his head and smiles. “Nothing. Just… stay like this for a bit?”

You lie on your back, head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

And that’s when you feel it. The ache.

Because if this is fake—if any part of it isn’t real—you’re going to break.

It happens on a Wednesday.

You’re arguing about something stupid. The dishes, maybe. Or the fact that he disappears for hours without telling you where. It’s lighthearted at first, flirty even. You call him a secret agent; he calls you dramatic.

But then he says it.

“Maybe you’re just addicted to attention.”

You freeze.

He regrets it the second it leaves his mouth. You can see it in his eyes.

You turn away, wounded, angry, but mostly—scared. Because he might be right. Or worse: maybe you’re not the one in control at all.

You don’t yell. You just say, quietly, “You think I’m not real. That what I feel for you isn’t real.”

He doesn’t answer.

Which is answer enough.

You sleep apart that night.

He almost leaves. But in the end, he can’t. He sleeps on the couch, watching the shadows on your ceiling, heart twisting in a way he doesn’t understand. Because this was never supposed to matter. This was supposed to be temporary. Fun. A way to escape.

But you’ve become his haven.

His storm and his stillness.

You take the stress off him.

And it terrifies him.

Days pass. You make up. Kind of. You pretend things are fine, and they almost are.

You watch movies together, sitting too close on the couch, fingers brushing the popcorn bowl. One night, you fall asleep during a romcom, drooling on his chest, your hair tickling his chin. He doesn’t move. Just stares at you. Tracing your profile with his eyes. Memorizing you.

He realizes then: he wants this.

Not just the sex. Not the thrill. Not the escape.

You.

Your laugh. Your star maps. The way you hum while you brush your teeth. The way you lean into him when you’re cold without realizing it. The way you challenge him, even when he tries to deflect.

He wants all of it.

Even if he doesn’t deserve it.

Even if it was built on a lie.

The vial still sits in his satchel. The antidote. He stares at it some nights, fingers wrapped around it, wondering if it would make you stay.

But he never gives it to you.

Not yet.

Guilt claws at his insides. Because maybe you do love him now. Maybe it is real. But how could he ever know for sure?

He starts to wonder: If the potion wears off... will you still want him?

Or will you run, furious and heartbroken, the moment the truth crashes down?

Because love can survive distance.

It can survive doubt.

But can it survive betrayal?

He doesn’t know.

And the fear of losing you is the only thing keeping him here.

So he waits.

And he watches.

And he falls.

Deeper than he ever meant to.

Beneath the sea, the palace of Naraeum glimmers with iridescent blues and greens, its coral spires winding into the currents like a dream built from moonlight and pressure. But inside the royal chamber, the atmosphere is anything but serene.

Hoseok stands tall before the throne, his chest heaving, his gills fluttering in agitation. His parents, King Haesan  and Queen Haeryeong, gaze down at him with eyes carved from centuries of tradition, unmoved by the heat in their son’s voice.

“You’re in love? With a human?” Queen Haeryeong repeats, her voice slicing through the water like a blade of ice.

“Yes,” Hoseok replies, jaw clenched. “Her name is—”

“We don’t care for her name,” King Haesan  growls, leaning forward in his coral throne, the golden crest of Naraeum shimmering against his broad chest. “What you’ve done… meddling with surface magic, tampering with potions of binding—you know that is forbidden.”

Hoseok doesn’t flinch. He expected this. Still, it stings.

“I never meant for it to go this far,” he says, voice softer now. “I just wanted a taste of freedom. I wanted something real.”

“And instead, you let yourself become infatuated with a surface dweller. A human. A temporary thrill.”

“She’s more than that.”

His mother narrows her eyes. “You were promised to the daughter of House Virelle. A mermaid of royal blood.”

“I don’t want to marry her!” Hoseok snaps. “I don’t want any of this—the throne, the court, the politics. Do you even see what it’s like to live up there? To breathe air, to laugh, to taste food that…” He falters. “She makes me feel alive.”

The chamber stills. The silence presses down like the weight of the ocean itself.

Finally, King Haesan  speaks, his voice low and unyielding. “Then make your choice. Return to your duties, prepare for your coronation, and marry your intended—or be stripped of your title, your powers, and your birthright. If you leave again, Hoseok, you will not be welcomed back.”

A hush echoes through the hall. Even the guards shift uncomfortably.

Hoseok’s heart pounds against his ribs like a war drum. The temptation to defy them is hot in his blood, but the fear coils just beneath. If he goes back… that might be the last time he ever sees Naraeum. The last time he swims these waters, calls them home.

He swallows hard. “I just want to see her one more time. Just to say goodbye.”

His mother’s gaze darkens. “And what then? You’ll break her heart? Disappear like the lie you are?”

He doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t know.

Later, in the solitude of his tide-woven chambers, Hoseok paces. Ancient magic hums in the kelp-wrapped walls, and glowing jellyfish swirl in lazy spirals overhead. But none of it soothes him. Not now.

He drifts to the table where he hid the small crystal vial—the last bottle of The Heart of the Abyss glistens inside like a captured moonbeam. If he gave it to you, he’d never have to wonder if your feelings were real. You’d love him, unconditionally. You’d never leave.

But the thought sickens him.

He doesn’t want you like that. Not anymore. Not with illusion clouding your heart. He wants your real laughter. The way your eyes crinkle when you talk about the stars. The way you lean into him during a movie, half-asleep, fingers brushing his thigh. The way you sigh when the world feels heavy, but still press on.

A mermaid with sapphire fins and tail, and ceremonial piercings floats outside his chamber. The betrothed. Distant. Beautiful. Dutiful.

She doesn’t laugh like you.

Hoseok turns his back and begins to pack.

He breaks through the surface that night, the moon silvering the water around him. Each breath of air tastes like guilt. Like longing. Like something he never wants to let go of.

Maybe he won’t tell you everything. Maybe he can just say goodbye. Or maybe… maybe he won’t be able to leave at all.

Because beneath all the lies, all the magic, all the duty—Hoseok is beginning to realize something that terrifies him more than the wrath of his kingdom:

He doesn’t want it to be the potion. He wants it to be real.

And the worst part is… it just might be.

The stars above are watching. And they never forget.

The sun dips low on the horizon, casting warm amber light through the slanted blinds of your apartment windows. Everything feels heavier today—like gravity itself is conspiring to drag your heart deeper into your chest. You’ve been spiraling since this morning, unable to shake the ache behind your ribs, the sense that something has been off for too long.

And then, there’s a knock at your door.

You don’t need to look. You know it’s him.

You open the door slowly, and there he is: Hoseok. Wind-tossed hair, flushed cheeks, shoulders tense under his loose hoodie. His gaze flickers toward you, and for a brief second, it softens.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little too quiet.

You step aside without a word, letting him in.

The silence is thick as he walks into the familiar space—the place that’s become more his than yours lately. He notices the sketchbook still open on the table, the empty mug by the couch, the blanket that still smells like him. He takes a breath. He thought this would be easier. Say goodbye. Walk away. But now that he’s here—

Something inside him cracks.

“I came to say goodbye,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—”

But then his bag slips from his shoulder and lands with a soft thud onto the hardwood floor. The flap opens. Something rolls out.

Two vials.

One full. Labeled antidote. One empty. Labeled love potion.

Your heart stops.

You stare.

“What the hell is this?” you ask, stepping forward. The full vial glows faintly with swirling golden liquid. The empty one still smells faintly sweet and metallic, like something magical. Your fingers tremble.

Hoseok freezes. “Wait—don’t touch that—”

But it’s too late. You’ve picked them up.

You whirl on him. “What are these?”

He doesn’t answer.

Your chest tightens. “Tell me the truth.”

He looks away, jaw tight. “I can’t.”

Your voice breaks. “Did you ever love me at all?”

“Don’t,” he whispers.

You step closer. “Do I even love you? Or did you make me?”

His eyes finally meet yours, wild with guilt, panic, sorrow. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

You feel like you’ve been slapped. The words echo through you.

“It was a game?” you ask, voice cracking. “Some little... magic trick?”

“I didn’t think it would work,” he says, frantic now. “You were supposed to forget. I wasn’t supposed to—”

“Fall for me?” you spit. “Too late for that now, isn’t it?”

The tears sting hot in your eyes. You shove the empty vial against his chest. “You stole my choice. My feelings. My body. And now you want sympathy?”

He’s shaking his head, helpless. “I wanted to tell you. Every time I came back here, I wanted to. But then I’d see you and—”

“What even are you?” you cut in, voice low and shaking. “Where did this come from?”

He says nothing.

Silence stretches, thick with betrayal.

Your hands curl around the full vial—the antidote—without him noticing. You tuck it behind you in the pockets of your jeans.

“I can’t believe I let myself fall for you,” you whisper. “I thought this was real.”

“It was,” he pleads. “It is. For me.”

You shake your head, taking a step back. “I can’t trust anything you say.”

Hoseok’s breath hitches. “Please don’t make this goodbye.”

But it already is.

He did come to say goodbye, but it’s not really what he wants.

“Get out,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, a thousand emotions flashing across his face. Then he nods once, slowly. Turns to leave.

When the door closes behind him, you sink to the floor, clutching the glowing vial to your chest. You don’t even know what’s real anymore.

But the pain?

That’s all too real.

Silence follows—thick, ringing silence that presses against your ears like you’re underwater. Like the weight of the ocean itself has followed him into your apartment, only to collapse in on you the moment he’s gone.

You’re standing in the middle of the room. Barefoot. Bare-hearted. One hand curled tightly around the glass vial.

The antidote.

It’s cool against your palm, deceptively innocent. A shimmer of lavender clings to the liquid, swirling gently like it knows what it is—what it could undo.

You stare at it, your hand trembling.

What are you even holding?

It looks like something out of a fairytale. Something you’d find in an ancient forest hidden behind a waterfall, or nestled in the satchel of a cursed prince. Something you were never meant to touch. And yet here it is, in your apartment, in your hand, and all you can do is stare and try not to cry again.

You don’t even know what it would do.

Would drinking it turn everything off? Would it erase the yearning in your chest? That spark that turned into a flame that’s now burning you alive from the inside out?

Or worse… what if it doesn’t change anything at all?

You press the vial to your forehead, shutting your eyes.

You remember how it felt when he kissed you like he’d never get the chance again. When he looked at you like the stars had come down to Earth just to live behind your eyes. When he laughed with his whole body, when he danced with you in your kitchen, when he held your hand like it was sacred.

What if none of it was real?

A sob claws its way up your throat, but you choke it down. You’re so tired of crying. Your cheeks still sting from earlier. And your heart? It’s just… frayed. Torn at the edges. Like a love letter that’s been folded and unfolded too many times.

You glance at the door, half-expecting him to come back. Half-hoping.

He won’t.

He looked too broken to even try.

Your fingers tighten around the vial.

Did he ever love you at all?

Was any of it him? Or were you just a puppet being pulled by the strings of some ancient, stolen spell? Was your heart even your own?

You want to scream. You want to smash the vial against the floor. You want to throw it at the wall and watch the magic splatter like it could take the pain with it.

But you don’t.

You walk over to the little shelf beside your door—where keys and stray coins and forgotten lip balm go to die—and set the vial down, like it’s just another trinket. Like it’s not the most dangerous thing in your entire home.

It stands there quietly, glowing faintly under the hallway light. A perfect lie, bottled.

You stand there for a long while, arms wrapped around yourself, teeth buried in your lip, staring at it like it might offer answers.

It doesn’t.

You don’t know what to do with it. Not now. Maybe not ever. Because if it takes away your feelings… what if there’s nothing left?

What if the love was yours all along?

Or worse—what if it never was?

You turn away with your chest aching, your whole body aching, like love is a poison and you’re finally feeling the full dose.

And yet… even through the betrayal, the confusion, the heartbreak…

You still love him.

And that? That’s what hurts the most.

Hoseok returns to the sea, deflated.

The ocean embraces him like a mother, but it no longer brings comfort. It’s too cold. Too quiet. Too still. Nothing like the warmth of your apartment, your laughter, your heartbeat beneath his fingertips. His chest aches from the weight of it all as he swims deeper into the sun-dappled waters, toward the golden towers of Naraeum.

He had hoped to say goodbye. Maybe stay. Or maybe… he doesn’t know anymore. All he knows is that you didn’t want him—not after what you learned. And the worst part? He doesn’t blame you.

The kingdom of Naraeum lies in a shimmer beneath the sea, golden spirals and coral domes, majestic kelp gardens woven with light. Its streets are patrolled by armored eel-guards and decorated with mosaics of sea gods and ancient battles. It is beautiful, but to Hoseok now, it is hollow. As if everything had turned into a painting—colorful, but unmoving.

His return is swift and unspectacular. He doesn’t cause a stir. Just a disgraced prince dragging his heart behind him like an anchor.

His parents are waiting.

Queen Haeryeong and King Haesan  sit on their thrones made of pearl and bone. They are radiant, powerful, terrifying. The court is full, and Hoseok bows low as the tide holds its breath.

“You’ve been gone too long, son,” his mother says, her voice as cold and crisp as cracked ice.

“And with no explanation,” his father adds, the disapproval thunderous in the quiet throne room.

“I…” Hoseok begins, but his throat is dry. He forces the words out. “I visited her to say goodbye.”

A hush falls.

“My human girlfriend.”

Gasps echo through the hall. The queen’s jaw tightens. The king’s trident digs into the floor.

“I don’t want to marry the mermaid you chose,” Hoseok says, forcing himself to stand tall. “I don’t want to be a prince. I don’t want that life.”

The fury that rises in their faces is swift and merciless.

“You’ve embarrassed this kingdom,” Queen Haeryeong spits. “You left when we explicitly told you not to. Your actions are treasonous.”

He doesn’t flinch.

But when the king stands, trident in hand, the weight of what comes next crashes over Hoseok like a tidal wave.

“You will be stripped of your title. Banished. Never allowed to return—”

“I’ll marry her!” Hoseok yells. “I’ll marry the mermaid.”

A stunned silence.

“Just… please. Don’t take the sea from me.”

There’s a long, tense pause. The court watches as the king and queen silently confer. And finally, Queen Haeryeong nods.

“Very well,” she says. “You may remain. But from this day forward, you are forbidden to surface. You will forget the human girl and perform your duties to Naraeum.”

He bows his head.

But forgetting you is impossible.

Days pass. Then weeks.

And everything feels… wrong.

The ocean used to be his haven. But now the vibrant corals look dull. The sea-songs that once made him dance now sound like funeral dirges. He swims through palace corridors with a fixed smile, but it never reaches his eyes. He attends royal functions, watches kelp plays, trains in sword-dance rituals—but he feels like he’s in a dream he can’t wake from.

His betrothed is beautiful, kind in a distant, royal way. She tries. But she is not you.

Sometimes she touches his hand, and Hoseok resists the urge to pull away. When she speaks, he hears your voice instead. When she laughs, he aches for your real, unpolished joy. You made him feel alive. This… this is just routine.

Taehyung visits often, and floats beside him on the palace terrace one evening, watching jellyfish drift by like lanterns.

“You’re hopelessly in love,” Taehyung says with a sigh.

“No, I’m not,” Hoseok lies.

Namjoon, on the other hand, does not let him off so easily.

“You stole a potion from the Sea Witch and used it on a human?” he scolds, arms crossed. “Do you know what kind of consequences that could have?”

“I didn’t think it would go this far,” Hoseok says quietly. “I didn’t think I’d…”

“Fall in love?”

He doesn’t answer.

Late one night, unable to sleep, Hoseok finds himself holding the last vial of the potion.

He doesn’t even know why he still has it. But the liquid inside still glows faintly, like temptation. Like ruin.

He tucks it into a satchel and swims.

Down. Deeper than he’s ever gone.

The waters are icy here, swallowing the light. Only darkness and silence. The dark end of the ocean. Home of exiles. Home of her.

The cave yawns before him, a jagged wound in the rock. And inside, a soft flicker of strange blue light.

The Sea Witch is doing her makeup with strips of kelp and shimmering eel scales, seated in her throne of cracked clamshells. She doesn’t even turn.

“Come to return what you stole, boy?” she asks, her voice like silk soaked in venom.

Hoseok freezes.

“Yeah... sorry,” he mutters.

She stands slowly and spins to face him, too gleeful, too radiant in her madness. “Why are you sorry? Everything was almost going the way it was supposed to.”

He narrows his eyes. “Supposed to?”

She circles him like a shark.

“I knew about your little surface excursions. I knew you’d come to me eventually. You were always weak for newness, for thrill. It was too easy.”

His heart hammers.

“You used the potion on a human, didn’t you?” Her smirk is maddening.

He says nothing, but that’s answer enough.

She cackles, gleeful. “The Heart of the Abyss is harmless on merfolk. But humans... oh, it eats them alive.”

Hoseok sways in place. “What do you mean?”

“Did she become obsessed with you? Did she lose her free will?” she coos. “Love stolen by potion never dies. It mutates.”

He growls, “Mutates into what?”

She leans in, whispering, “Madness. Until she dies. Of heartbreak, or love so heavy it crushes her.”

Hoseok’s stomach drops. His world spins.

“What about the antidote?” he shouts. “Will it fix it? Reverse it?”

She laughs again. “Maybe. Maybe not. If it does, she won’t remember you. Or herself.”

He trembles with rage. “Why would you make something so dangerous?”

She grins. “Because I need you. To make a hybrid child.”

He recoils.

“That child would break my curse. Restore my beauty. Lift the ban your oh-so-pure parents placed on me.”

His fists clench. He’s just a pawn in her twisted revenge. And you… you were caught in the crossfire.

The thought makes him sick.

“You want to reverse it, don’t you?” she says, swimming closer.

He doesn’t answer, just turns and storms out of the cave, his red tail slicing through the water.

He needs the antidote.

He rushes home, tears stinging his eyes, tearing through the palace, turning his quarters upside down.

But it’s gone.

Gone.

And that’s when the fear truly sets in.

It’s been months. And you feel like you’re dying.

Not physically—though some mornings your limbs feel like lead, and your bones ache with emptiness—but emotionally, spiritually. Like your soul is slowly leaking out of your body, leaving you hollow, a mere echo of who you once were.

You wake up each day slower than the last. Your eyes are glassy, your skin dull. Nothing tastes right. Nothing sounds right. Music, once your favorite escape, just makes you cry. You haven’t laughed in weeks. The apartment is quiet now, full of dust and ghosts, and there’s an ache that no amount of sleep can dull. Everything smells like him—his scent lingers on your pillow, and his hoodie, still hanging by the door, is the only thing you haven’t had the heart to wash.

You’re unraveling. And you don’t even know who you are anymore.

You used to be strong. Independent. You never fell fast for anyone. You never obsessed. But this? This all-consuming, bone-deep ache for Hoseok—it’s not love. It’s torment.

It’s madness.

And you know it’s not just your heart. It’s something deeper. Something unnatural. Because no human should feel like they’re being eaten alive by grief over a man who was never even fully yours.

You glance again at the small glass vial sitting on the shelf by the door.

The antidote.

You’ve stared at it every day since the night he left, the night everything fell apart. You’ve thought about drinking it a thousand times, but the fear of what it might do to you—of who you’ll be without this ache—keeps you frozen.

What if it erases everything?

What if it makes you forget him completely?

…What if the love you feel for him isn’t even real?

That last question has haunted you most. Ever since you found the vials, everything has slowly made sense and shattered you all at once. Your mood swings. Your obsessive attachment. The way you couldn’t stand to be apart from him, like your lungs forgot how to breathe if he wasn’t near.

You used to think it was fate. A cosmic kind of love.

But now…

Now you know better.

You stand in front of the shelf, the air in the room feeling heavier than ever. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the vial, the soft clink of glass against your fingertips sounding louder than thunder. The liquid inside shimmers faintly in the light, like something ancient and powerful, something alive.

You whisper to the room, maybe to yourself, maybe to the universe. “Please… let me go.”

And then you drink it.

It’s cold on your tongue, almost metallic, and it burns slightly as it slides down your throat. You wait, bracing yourself for pain or magic or lightning to strike. You wait for your heart to stop aching, for the madness to quiet.

But nothing happens.

Nothing at all.

Your breath catches. Your eyes flick to the mirror across the room. You look the same. Your heart still hurts. Your head is still spinning. You still want him.

“No,” you whisper, voice cracking. “No, no, no.”

Tears flood your eyes. Because if it wasn’t the potion—

Then it was real.

And that truth is almost worse.

Because if this love was yours from the start, if you gave it freely, fully, without knowing he had taken something from you—then the betrayal is deeper than any magic. Because he didn’t have to steal your heart.

You would have given it to him.

You collapse onto the couch, curling into yourself like a dying star. You cry into the fabric, clutching his hoodie to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to this world. The ache doesn’t leave. The antidote doesn’t erase anything.

It just shows you what’s left behind.

And what’s left behind… is heartbreak.

“Are you really sure about this?” Namjoon asks, his brows creased with worry, arms crossed as he leans against the coral archway of Hoseok’s chamber. The current swirls gently around them, soft and cold, like the hush before a storm.

Hoseok doesn’t look up. He’s packing again—tossing clothes and a small satchel of belongings into a bag, his jaw tight, his movements sharp with conviction. Every breath feels like fire. Every second wasted is one closer to something irreversible.

“I’m going,” he says.

Yoongi watches him silently, perched on a slick rock shelf. His expression is unreadable, but his silence says enough—he doesn’t agree, but he won’t stop him either.

“You’re leaving the night before your wedding,” Jimin says quietly, voice soft with disbelief. “If your parents find out…”

“They’ll banish you,” Namjoon finishes grimly.

Hoseok finally stops and turns to them, the pressure building in his chest too much to hold back. “I don’t care,” he spits, and for once, his voice cracks under the weight of it all. “I don’t care. She’s sick. She’s dying. I can feel it—something’s wrong. I did this to her.”

Jungkook swims closer, his voice calm but unsure. “You don’t even know if the antidote worked, or if she took it at all. She could be fine.”

“She’s not,” Hoseok says, his hands shaking. “I know she’s not. I can feel it. I’ve felt it for weeks.”

He breathes hard, closing the bag with a sharp tug. His heart pounds in his ears. His tail flutters restlessly beneath him. He’s not prince material. He never was. He doesn’t want duty. He wants you.

“I won’t sit here and plan a wedding I don’t want,” he says quietly. “Not while she suffers. Not while there’s still a chance I can fix what I broke.”

“Even if she hates you?” Yoongi’s voice is flat. Real.

Hoseok hesitates.

“Even if she hates me,” he answers, because he already knows you do.

There’s a heavy silence. The weight of all his decisions hangs between them, thick like salt. Then, without another word, he slings the bag over his shoulder and swims out of his room—past the ornate kelp-draped palace, past the singing schools of silver fish, past everything he was ever supposed to be.

He doesn’t stop.

Not when the city disappears behind him. Not when the reef lights fade into pitch black. Not even when the cold edge of the ocean starts scraping against his skin like a warning.

Because nothing in this whole world matters if you’re not in it.

The surface hits him like a slap.

The moon is high. Stars scattered like salt across a deep navy sky. The air tastes different up here tonight—electric and raw. He shivers, legs forming with a shimmer of magic, sea foam hissing as it clings to his skin before fading.

He finds the stash of clothes tucked beneath a rock by the shoreline. His favorite glittery jeans and a plain white tank top—comfort in a world that feels entirely too sharp now.

He pulls them on, heart racing.

The city lights are humming in the distance. His legs still feel unsteady, but he doesn’t care. He walks barefoot across the sidewalk, the concrete warm from the sun’s memory. The noise of the world floods into his ears—cars, music, people.

Your world.

His chest aches just walking through it.

When he reaches your apartment, he hesitates for just a breath before knocking.

No answer.

He knocks again. Harder this time.

Still nothing.

His heart lurches. Is he too late? Did the potion take you already? Did the antidote fail? He nearly chokes on the panic rising in his throat.

Then, the door across the hall opens.

It’s a neighbor—a woman in her thirties with a tired ponytail and sleepy eyes. She blinks at him, confused, then recognition dawns.

“Oh. You’re back.” Her voice is tight. “She’s not here.”

He swallows. “Where is she?”

The woman crosses her arms, eyeing him with clear judgment. “She’s at the club tonight. First time she’s left the house in weeks.”

His breath catches.

“She’s been sick, you know.” Her tone sharpens. “Crying for months. Barely eating. I almost called someone, I was that worried. What the hell did you—”

But Hoseok’s already gone, running barefoot down the hall, past the elevator, taking the stairs two at a time like the floor’s on fire. Because you’re still alive. You’re alive.

But maybe not for long.

He can’t afford to wait. The obsession mutates, the Sea Witch had said. Into heartbreak. Into madness. Into death.

He runs faster.

Faster than he ever has.

Because this might be the last chance he has to save you.

He’s rushing now.

The moment he bursts through the club doors, his breath catches in his throat. The lights flash blue and gold, bass pulsing through the floor like a second heartbeat. The very place you first met—where time seemed to pause—now feels like the edge of the world.

And then he sees you.

Sitting alone in the corner booth, lit up by flickering neon. A drink in hand, a faraway look in your eyes. You’re here. You’re alive. And you look… different. A little haunted. A little tired. But still devastatingly beautiful.

He walks over, fast but hesitant, like approaching a wild thing that might bolt.

He slides into the booth across from you.

You glance up, eyes scanning his face with a mix of vague familiarity and open suspicion.

“Hi, babygirl,” he says softly, voice hoarse, like the words hurt coming out.

You stare at him like he just told you the sky was purple. Like maybe you’ve seen him in a dream, or a nightmare.

“Babygirl?” you repeat. “Who the hell are you?”

His heart sinks. “Hoseok. I—Jay. It’s me.”

He watches you for a reaction, something, anything that will tell him what’s left inside of you. His voice breaks a little. “Don’t you remember me?”

“Oh, I remember you,” you say brightly, a smile curling across your lips—but it’s the wrong kind of smile. “We’re destined. I want to have your children. The stars told me.”

Hoseok’s soul flatlines.

“I—what?” he chokes.

You lean in, close enough for him to smell your perfume, sweet and familiar, and your lips part with a whisper:

“I want you to fill me up with your babies.”

If he had still been a merman, his tail would’ve curled up like a dying leaf. Instead, his face flames red, hotter than a volcanic vent. He swallows, heart pounding in his throat, completely unprepared for this level of emotional whiplash.

“Did you… take the antidote?” he asks, suddenly unsure of what’s real anymore.

You sip your drink lazily. “I did.”

He leans forward, gripping the edge of the table. “And?”

“It made me better,” you say, casual as anything. “I was dying, you know. Slowly. It was awful. My brain felt like it was melting.”

He goes pale.

“But I’m okay now,” you add, twirling the straw between your fingers.

“But… if you took it… how can you remember me?”

You smile again, this time softer. Wiser. “I just do.”

He stares, throat tight.

“And now that you’re back…” you trail off, dragging the silence like velvet, “we can make a baby.”

He makes a horrified sound in the back of his throat.

Then you break into laughter, shoulders shaking, your hand pressed over your stomach like it physically hurts to hold it in.

“I’m messing with you,” you grin. “Jesus, your face.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

“I’m not obsessed with you anymore,” you say, and your voice is calm, almost kind.

That hurts more than anything.

“You don’t… love me anymore?” he asks, quiet, and the question cracks his chest open.

You tilt your head. “Oh no. I still love you.”

His whole world tilts.

“I just know I do now,” you explain. “Not because of some magic. Not because of a potion. I know it because you broke me and I still wanted you. That kind of love is either real… or really stupid.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Maybe both.”

“Probably.”

A silence falls. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s thick. Weighted with all the things left unsaid.

You take another sip of your drink and meet his gaze again. “So… do you still love me?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’ve always loved you,” he says. “Before the potion. After it. During it. I didn’t even know what the potion was going to do. I was stupid. And selfish. And scared.”

You nod, absorbing it, but your expression doesn’t soften.

“That’s cool,” you say. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me everything. The truth. No lies. No magic. I know your real name now, Hoseok. So tell me who you are. Why you drugged me. What the hell you really are. And then…” you pause, “I’ll decide what to do with you.”

He’s breathless. But he nods. Because this is more than he deserves. And he’ll give it to you—all of it.

Even if it ends with you walking away.

Because love isn’t about control. It’s about choice. And this time… you get to choose.

Hoseok leans in, trembling with the weight of everything he’s about to tell you.

And he does. He spills it all. About the potion. The Sea Witch. Naraeum. His royal duties. The guilt. The panic. The love. The heartbreak. He doesn’t try to make himself look good—he just gives you the truth. Raw and unpolished.

You sit in silence, absorbing it.

You don’t speak when he finishes, not for a long time. Just sip your drink. He watches you with a kind of reverent terror, like your judgment will be his only fate now.

And then, finally, you set your glass down.

You look him dead in the eye, smirk curling on your lips.

“Okay,” you say. “You’ve got one shot.”

You stand, walk to the edge of the booth, and turn to face him, holding out your hand.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

He laughs, more relief than sound, and takes your hand like it’s sacred. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to this world. Which you kind of are.

Months pass.

And just like that, love grows—without potions this time.

It’s messy. Beautiful. Real.

Hoseok lives with you now. On land. In a cramped apartment that smells like sea salt and lavender. He doesn’t miss the ocean, not really, though he visits the shore often. Sometimes the guys come up—Taehyung bringing trinkets, Jungkook complaining about jellyfish stings, Namjoon scolding everyone like a worried mother.

His parents still won’t speak to him. But he doesn’t regret it.

Because you laugh when you wake up beside him. You hum when you cook. You still call him “babygirl” sometimes, just to mess with him.

And he’s never been more alive.

It’s late.

The air in your apartment is heavy, the window cracked open to let in the ocean breeze. Moonlight spills across the bed where Hoseok sits, shirtless, his hair damp from a shower, eyes fixed on you like you’re gravity itself.

“You still mad at me?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

You crawl toward him, slow, deliberate, one eyebrow raised. “Maybe.”

He leans back on his elbows, watching you approach with a smirk that’s all danger and reverence. “Are you gonna punish me?”

You hum thoughtfully, straddling his lap. “Might.”

“Mm,” he breathes, hands settling on your hips. “Promise?”

You kiss him.

It starts slow, soft—like you’re still searching each other. But then it deepens. Gets hungrier. All the months of longing and pain and forgiveness melt between your mouths. His fingers press into your thighs, your nails rake down his chest. It’s not just lust—it’s claiming.

“Tell me it’s real,” you whisper against his lips.

“It’s real,” he groans, voice breaking. “I love you. No magic. No lies.”

You rock your hips against him and he gasps, head falling back.

“Good,” you murmur, licking into his mouth. “Because I’m going to ride you like I own you.”

He laughs—hoarse, desperate—and flips you beneath him in one smooth motion.

“You do,” he breathes, kissing down your neck. “You’ve always owned me.”

Clothes fall away.

Moans fill the room.

And for the first time since all of this began, it’s not fate, or magic, or prophecy.

It’s just you.

And him.

And love. Real, wild, imperfect love.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379, @jeonsbabygirlsworld, @fancypeacepersona, @ktownshizzle, @pjmxxjm, @ajoonniice, @kookiewithluv, @mikrokookiex, @rapmonjoon94, @parkitrighthere *still vibing with the old taglist, I pretty much don’t give a fuck anymore, can you tell?

→ requested taglist: @allie-in-the-moon @bangtannie7 @suker4angst (sorry I can’t remember if this is all, but I hope it is).

→ Author’s endnote: I hope it didn’t suck 🥲 Thank you for reading and for supporting me 💕

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2025 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[zoshizick]

i finished watching the series "bojack horseman." no words in the world are enough to describe the brilliance of this show

i really can't find the right words; i just stared in awe for a minute, overwhelmed with emotions

just take my word for it and watch it if you want; it's an absolutely incredible show. it will change something in you, i can assure you

it's a brilliant work that leaves a bittersweet taste; you just want to cry, but you can't, to hold onto those emotions a bit longer and remember them, as such an abundance of feelings can only be experienced during the first viewing

it touches on so many themes, with easter eggs that are presented brilliantly, so many life lessons, morals, and ordinary human experiences, and you just marvel at how the world can be both simple and complex at the same time

what i'm talking about now doesn't even come close to capturing the GENIUS of the work. you need to watch it for yourself and FEEL it for yourself

it's like you've stepped into an endless cosmos, and though it may kill you, you don't want to return to earth. you want to drown in this poison to keep enjoying the show, but ultimately, it will just doom you

i don't think anything will impress me after such a masterpiece. everything will feel less than this

bojack is not just a show about animated characters. bojack is about people with such real problems, with such genuine discussions and reactions, that you involuntarily become deeply immersed in it. bojack is about the realistic revelation of humanity, and you feel exposed while at the same time craving more. bojack is like something that slowly destroys you, and without it, life feels less vibrant than before

the charm of the show lies in its captivating, disarming simplicity of reality. there are no unnecessary gimmicks or tired clichés; bojack mocks those. everything in bojack is presented with soul, and you can feel it. you feel despair or joy alongside the characters, as if you are living it yourself. that happens not for the first time, but bojack presents it in a way that feels at a different level

if we're talking about the characters and their relationships, that would take hours. i won't be able to describe it in words. you just replay all your memories with them like a film and think about how beaten down they are by life, yet they still climb up and help each other no matter what. these strangers to each other are family without any labels

bojack discusses everything that could possibly be discussed, but it never feels repetitive. it unfolds smoothly and gradually, in the right place and at the right time. bojack is like shameless, but even more genius, imho. if you talk about the characters, the depth of character development in bojack is unmatched. it is a brilliance that cannot be conveyed in words. i highly recommend watching it; infinity/10

tadc is a slightly lighter version of bojack, but with the same depth in plot, thoughtful details, and deep lore of characters and their relationships. two unparalleled shows that will always hold a place in my heart

i just want to say that bunnydoll and bojack with princess carolyn are the same. i'm amazed by the depth and complexity of their relationships, and that bittersweet aftertaste they leave behind