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justarkive · 23 days ago

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THE JEONS | 15

15: Too Much Love

summary: a collection of chaotic family drabbles. thats it.

contents: family!au, non.idol jungkook, girl!dad jk, fluff, angst, sensitive topics + smut sometimes!

• chapter contents: tender domesticity, overwhelming love, parental vulnerability, soft angst. fluff with a gritty, aching undercurrent + strange sense of impending doom. emotional overload, insecurity, and a moment of stepping back before stepping forward. jungkook washes hana, but it becomes too much. love that hurts in its softness.

• warnings: emotional intensity, self-worth struggles, one (1) grown man crying in a hallway. parental softness that may destroy you.

a/n: idk this drabble doesnt even have anything that sad in it but i was so sad while writing it, this is also my attempt at writing smth poetic and gritty hehe, im vry proud of it ( prob my fav drabble out of all of them )

• taglist: @jenniebyrubies @lovingkoalaface @iamstilljk @elinaki92 @rpwprpwprpwprw @mafersame @parkinglot-nights @reallygenerouskoala @mimi1097 @aznstoner @jungshaking @pinkpunkdynamite @angie-x3 @bgfdcvbnjk @starlight-1010 (check pinned to be added)

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It’s late.

Not late in the way the clock says—though it’s well past midnight—but in that way the house feels. Everything quiet, soft, suspended. Lights off in every room except the bathroom, where a single yellow lamp hums like it’s dreaming. The light is dim and sleepy, casting the room in that strange glow that only happens past midnight, when the world forgets how to be loud.

The water’s warm, not hot. Just enough to steam the mirror a little, just enough to make her lashes damp at the tips.

Hana’s in the tub, knees drawn up, toes wiggling under the bubbles. She’s talking—something about a sea monster and a rubber duck who fell in love—but he’s only half-hearing it. Not because he’s not listening. He is.

She’s all pink cheeks and wet lashes, her laugh like windchimes, her body small and wiggly with joy, still unbothered by the world. Still untouched by shame or fear or anything heavy. And she’s looking at him like he invented every good thing. Like he’s the sun and gravity and all her favorite colors in one body.

It’s just hard to breathe.

He brushes her hair slowly, rhythmically. Like it’s a ritual. One hand gathering the light strands from the nape of her neck, the other tugging gently from scalp to end. Repeat. The brush stutters now and then on a tangle, and she flinches like she wants to protest, but doesn’t. She’s warm and heavy-limbed with sleep, her cheeks pink with heat, her breath fogging the mirror just a little.

His sleeves are wet past the elbows, one hand steady under her chin, the other smoothing more shampoo into her scalp. She tilts her head back when he says so, closes her eyes, lets the water rinse through her hair like she trusts him with everything. And she does. That’s the part that makes his chest ache.

She trusts him.

More than anything else in the world.

And she’s so small.

His fingers cup the curve of her head like he’s holding a bird. His palm covers her entire back when she leans forward to rinse. Her wrists disappear under the wrap of his hands. He’d like to think he could fold her up into his chest and carry her forever.

And he wants to.

Jungkook looks at her—really looks—and his chest aches.

Because his whole world is right there. In the tub. With her flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes and the toy that keeps capsizing and the hair that tangles faster than he can smooth it. That’s it. That’s the whole purpose. That’s the whole goddamn point of everything he’s ever done right.

But then she blinks up at him with that stupid gummy smile and those eyelashes that stick together in stars, and she giggles just because he scrubs behind her ears a little too hard, and it happens—something in his throat stings. The kind of ache you only get when love feels like too much for the body you’re in.

He swallows it down. Or tries to.

Keeps washing her shoulders. Quietly.

But the sight of her little spine. Her soft skin. The way she leans back into his hand without even thinking. It’s unbearable. It’s perfect. It’s terrifying.

Because how did he get this?

How did someone like him—someone who messes things up, someone who still flinches at the thought of not being enough—how did he end up here? With this tiny, beautiful, trusting human leaning back into his hands like he’s the only safe place she’s ever known?

It’s too much.

He feels it rising in his chest like heat, like a wave, like something is about to crack open, and he has to step back.

He puts down the washcloth. Carefully. Not fast, not sharp, just… careful.

“Baby,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Mama’s gonna finish, okay?”

Hana pouts. “But I want—”

“Shhh,” you murmur, stepping in without missing a beat, your voice the calm to every storm. “He’ll be right back, bun.”

You kiss her wet forehead and take the cloth from his hand. He brushes past you. Not rushed, but not slow either. Just enough to not fall apart in front of her.

He leans against the wall just outside the door.

One breath. Then another.

The air out here feels colder. Less magical.

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. Doesn’t even bother hiding it.

Inside, he hears you humming. Nothing special. Just something soft, familiar. The way you always do when it’s late and everyone’s tired and there’s not a single thing in the world that needs fixing.

And he turns just enough to see.

You’re kneeling at the edge of the tub, sleeves pushed up, eyes low and warm. Hana’s voice is sticky with giggles, high and bubbling like something effervescent, and it bounces off the tile and into the corners of the room. You’re washing her arms, small and slippery with soap, and she kicks water at you when you try to rinse her back. You don’t flinch. You just smile. That kind of smile that curves your whole mouth, that he never gets tired of watching. Hana is looking at you like you’re her whole sun.

And you are.

And this time, it doesn’t break him.

It rebuilds him.

He stands there quietly, watching the two of you.

His world. All of it.

And this time, the tears don’t sting—they warm.

You’re not talking much. Just murmuring little things to her. Compliments. Warnings. Soft scolds disguised as lullabies. The kind of voice you use only with her. And she’s not paying attention to the words, really—just the tone. The tenderness. The safety in it.

He stands in the doorway, leaning on the frame, arms crossed but loose, heavy eyes tracking both of you like he’s afraid to blink. Like if he does, this moment might glitch and vanish.

You’re so beautiful. Not in the stupid, glossy way. Not like a picture or a promise. You’re beautiful in the way breath is beautiful. In the way the moon never asks to be looked at, but always is.

He exhales, slow and full.

Two people. That’s it. Just two people.

And yet, somehow, his whole fucking universe is right there. Slippery and soft and splashing.

After, he watches you towel her off, warm her little limbs, lotion her tiny knees while she pretends not to like it. She makes a face at the cold cream, and you flick her forehead gently, and she grins like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Then you carry her to her room, even though she’s getting too big, and he hears you groan dramatically about your back and she tells you that you’re old, and the two of you are laughing again, in whispers.

You dry her hair with the towel, patting gently, while she wiggles on the bed like she’s got ants in her pajamas. He’s sitting on the floor just by her doorway, elbows to knees, head bowed.

You sit her on the bed, tuck her in with too many blankets like you always do, and smooth her hair back from her forehead. He sees you hesitate before turning off the lamp, reaching instead for the brush.

She whines a little, but you hush her with something sweet and mindless. The bristles move through her hair. She’s half-asleep, head bobbing with each pass.

Two people. One brushing the other’s hair.

But to him, it looks like the whole goddamn meaning of life.

“Dada?” she mumbles, eyes half-lidded, twisting the hem of her sleeve in her fingers. “Where’s Dada?”

You glance at her. Then at him.

He hasn’t moved. Like the words didn’t quite reach him.

So you turn slightly, raise your voice just enough to find him in the quiet.

“She’s asking for you,” you say, gentle but firm.

“I—can’t,” he says softly. Quiet enough that only you hear it.

Your hand stills on her head. You look over your shoulder.

“I know,” you say, and it’s not a question. It’s not disappointment. It’s not pressure.

It’s just… knowing.

And then you reach for him—your fingers, open, palm up.

“Come on,” you say. Just that.

And he doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t. Not because he doesn’t love her. But because he loves her so much that it hurts. And right now that ache feels bigger than he can carry alone.

But you’re not letting him do it alone.

So he takes your hand.

You pull him up gently, guide him back into the room like it’s nothing, like it’s easy. He swears he can’t breathe right, but you’re calm. And she’s calm. And the night is calm too.

Together, you sit her down at the edge of the bed. You kneel in front of her and start brushing her hair with slow, even strokes, while he sits behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. He watches your hands. Watches the way you twist the strands, smooth the flyaways, tuck the pieces behind her ear with such care.

She’s almost asleep before the braid’s even finished.

He swallows hard. Touches her ankle.

“I love you,” he whispers, so soft it barely counts as sound.

She hums through her sleepiness. “I love you… more.”

And he just blinks. Swallows again.

You never could, he thinks. Not even close.

He glances at you, and you smile—not the wide kind, but the small, knowing kind. The kind that says, we’ve got her. Even when you don’t say it out loud.

And the thing is, he can’t do this alone. He doesn’t want to.

The braid is crooked again. A few strands already falling loose. The nightlight glows orange against the curve of her cheek. Her mouth is slack, her lashes curled, her fingers curled around the hem of her blanket.

His chest aches again, but this time it doesn’t scare him.

It softens him.

You kiss Hana’s temple, then gesture for him to do the same. He does. Carefully. Right between her brows.

And when she exhales a little sigh like it’s the last thing she needed before surrendering to sleep, you take his hand again. Guide him back down the hallway. Lights off, doors closed.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, once the world is hushed behind you.

And he believes you.

He really does.

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crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington · 2 years ago

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Is “willingly unloved” canon to the roomates au?

yes, unless it is excplicitly stated all comics/ drawings under the hashtag r canon!

it was also a bit of a character study of ethan, i wanted to draw what i think he would act like after going through something as traumatizing as re8 and re7. a lot of the times ethan getting horribly hurt (arms/legs cut off) is either passed off as a joke of "haha he lost another arm" or passed off as him being a idiot being stupid. i wanted to explore how those things would affect him and how all his past relationships did as well. both mia and chris, two people he cared for and trusted broke his trust, mia on two different occasions. (pls dont turn this into a anti mia post lol, its just straight canon im just acknowledging what she literally did. what she did affects the people in her life, and this post is about ethan. it doesnt nesscarily matter what her intentions were since the execution was still horrible so pls dont get upset at me)

in re7 he suffers the consequences of someones lie, and it repeats in re8. i feel like he would be far more reserved after re8. he cant trust anyone and he now lives with the knowledge that he and his daughter r bioweapons and there organizations out there to get him. in this AU chris is helping by trying to return ethan to a normal life but after re8 ethan would not trust chris imo. not in a way where he thinks chris will turn him into the BSAA or whatever but more like hes worried that chris is possibly hiding something important or planning something he doesnt know.

he would have major trust issues and probably would have huge difficulty with opening himself up to another connection, especially since leon is friends with chris. ethan would probably be wary due to association.

after re8 he is left with nothing. his wife lied to him again, and the man who was suppose to protect him did a horrible job at it LOL. he has rosemary and thats it. and at any moment someone could take her for being a bioweapon. he would live a life of paranoia and stress trying to give rosemary and normal life while trying to keep her safe at the same time. i feel like getting divorced with mia would be the best option for ethan. as much as they loved each other it wasnt healthy. mia wanted to forget and move on while ethan knew nothing and wanted to understand more. its unfortunate i know. in re8 ethan has a book about weapons and says, "its not paranoia if theyre really out to get you."

its honestly so tragic 😭

in a more realistic way to canon, ethan was doomed to die in that village. a life after it all, after surviving re8 would be horrible. the BSAA is corrupt so hes stuck with chris trying to hide and live a normal life. theres no where for him to go.

BUUTTTTTT... in a cutesy AU where leon and ethan r roomates he gets to heal so yayy. ethan would definetly be very hesitant to open up to leon and would probably not trust him for a long time

for now its just him and rose

#ethan winters #leon kennedy #lethan #roomate au

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hello-nichya-here · 2 months ago

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You would be surprised to see it but there are really many who love Ned and Ashara as a couple and 9 times out of 10 they hate Catelyn and see her as a limit to their couple, despite the fact that Ned - a man who thinks about his past constantly - does not think about her even once and many love the couple just out of spite to Catelyn.

I agree, Jonsa would make everyone unhappy and it would be exactly the kind of marriage that Sansa would not want: for convenience / security instead of love, certainly better with her brother / cousin who does not mistreat her than a madman but it is still not the love marriage that she wants. What do you think about the fact that Sansa and Sandor's name are so similar? They are very different yet similar and even if people want to deny every romantic subtext they can't deny that they help each other to become the better version of themselves (Sandor in particular needed Sansa to be less clinical) and i cant think that is a coincidence: every other character cool but they are SO IMPORTANT to each other's growth for their name to be so similar without a reason. Maybe the reason is exactly that : they are those side of the same coin.

Man, people are freaking ridiculous. Imagine hating a character so much that you pretend "her husband wasn't blind and thought a different woman was beautiful nearly two decades ago, before even meeting his actual wife" means THAT woman MUST be the true love of his life. Did no one tell them they can dislike a character without making shit up?

Repeated/simmilar names are very important in the book series.

Danys the dreamer predicted the doom of Valyria and saved house Targaryen from it. Daeneys is bringing house Targaryen back to it's former glory/saving it from dying out by bringing the dragons back.

House Stark has billion legendary "Brandom Stark"s, and our Bran is told that, in his nan's mind "all Brandoms are one" - and now he might potentially know ALL the other Brans knew because of all the magical nonsense going on with him.

Robb Stark was named after Robert Baratheon - a young man that had won several battles, was named king without expecting it, turned out to not be that great at handling the power he was given, and his death causes all hell to break lose in an already deeply unstable kingdom.

Tyrion Lannister is a character whose entire struggle (internal and external) comes from a ton of traumas over not being loved by his father Tywin, and losing the love of his life, Tysha.

Both Arya and Sansa need to take on new identities to survive, and are told to forget the person they once were - but their new names, Cat and Alayne put together sound an awful lot like CATELYN, their mother, as a hint that this change won't be permanent.

And yes, Sansa and Sandor having such simmilar names has a very clear narrative purpose. Sansa is an idealist that uses her nature as a hopeless dreamer to survive, while Sandor is an idealist that has grown cynical in order to survive.

They both give each other a much needed reality check - Sansa can't keep turning a blind eye to the horrors of the world (for her sake and for everybody else's), and Sandor can't keep trying to avoid responsibily for his role is said horrors because "that's just the way things are."

Sandor makes Sansa more aware of what kind of people/world she's dealing with, Sansa reminds him that he has the choice to not be a monster anymore.

Both characters also fear that they'll never be loved for who they are - Sandor because he's done terrible things and because of his looks, Sansa because all everyone sees in her is the potential of winning Winterfell through marriage. Both are the only ones to truly see each other in a way no other character did.

And, of course, they're the Beauty and the Beast of the book series - George R.R. Martin's favorite love story.

#asks #sansan #sandor x sansa #book sansa #book sandor #the hound and the little bird

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kiryoutann · 11 months ago

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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

SOMETIMES, you'd like to know who your mother was before she became your mother.

You want to know where the acidic and corrosive elements that precede each of her statements come from. Perhaps she acquired it from your father—someone even more poisonous than she was. However, from how it blended with her expression every time she said: “a man’s heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing!” you can't be convinced otherwise that before she met your father, she wasn't like that—that she was once a loving girl before he wrecked her and made her your vengeful mother.

Time heals all wounds, they say. And yet, as far as you know, your mother's is still dripping with blood. Rotten. Maggot infested.

You believed it was exactly what she wanted—so that it wouldn't heal, so that she wouldn't forget how much it burned and constricted her. Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, and she will undoubtedly carry it with her until death. “A man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing,” she says, as if she's sure you'll forget what happened to her—to both of you. As if losing the love of her life was hereditary. “Don't you see, sweetheart? We are a paradox of contrasts and twins.”

You're still wondering whether it was a warning or a prayer. Good mothers ensure with all their body and soul that the past does not repeat itself, that their daughters do not embody everything they might become – their mothers. God forbid they dragged themselves across the floor, trembling fingers stretched stiffly clawing at doors that had been long since being slammed shut. However, your mother wasn’t always a good mother, and she often swore over her mother's grave that you would feel the same way she did.

And yet, despite her curses and how much you hate her as much as you hate your deadbeat father, apparently a sense of familiarity is what you're searching for.

Perhaps, that’s what made him catch your eye.

Soft footsteps were created when several pairs of ballerina pointe shoes came down the hallway after the performance ended. Smiles and laughter were among them—a familiar sight; the audience was satisfied with their performance, and they were sure that the ballet director had no more notes for them because, firstly, Marie, the main ballerina in the role of Giselle, had become the center of conversation thanks to her gifted movements, leaving no room for talking about little "building" errors for the other dancers. Second, this season has reached its end, which means they won't be showing "Giselle" again for at least the next few months.

“I saw you sneak chocolates before the show, El.” One ballerina teased.

“They're for energy!” Eloise insisted with a grin.

The ornaments on their heads moved as they both laughed. You flashed a smile but didn't dare enter into the conversation. Satin-clad feet kept moving in the direction of the corps de ballet dressing room door. More laughter and gossip ensued as you passed through the door to the small vanity you shared with another dancer.

"So where are you going after this?" someone at the next table asked, not at you.

You turned around, periodically glancing in the mirror to wipe away the last traces of makeup. "I don't know! Somewhere that can help me relieve stress, obviously. Soph?” Claudine directed her question at another, still not you.

“Sorry, girls, but I have to sit this one out. My mamma has been protesting about me coming home late lately ever since she saw some protests on TV. You two have fun without me.” Sophia declines—that leaves Jules and Claudine alone then. You were ready to return to your own thoughts when Sophia's hazel eyes fixed on you and called your name. "What about you?"

Claudine turned to you, her lips forming a teasing smirk. “Gonna go home and practice some more, no doubt,” she teased. “Live a little for once! Come out with us.”

You focused on untying your pointe shoes while the other two laughed. “No thanks, I'm tired. Think I'll just relax tonight.”

Rather than a teasing smirk, now Claudine's lips resembled a declaration that she was correct once more: "Look, I'm right, aren't I? She's still the same boring girl. No surprise that the best role she can get is dancing as a leaf in the background." It's no longer a myth. It is no longer a myth that other dancers—old and new—only see a robot prodigy, soulless in her single-minded pursuit of perfection. Your movements were full of precision, tempered by years of being under the training of a Russian coach your mother sought out for you. And yet your body is sharpened for nothing more than the purpose of being a vessel. Hushed jokes about you selling your soul to the devil for your skills.

“Aww, not even for one night? Loosen up that tight bun of yours?”

You shoved the last of your things hastily into your bag, not paying attention as someone else's hairbrush and chapstick were forced to sit on top of your toiletry bag—you can always return them tomorrow. The other girls are still laughing while you swing the overstuffed duffel over your shoulder.

“Goodnight,” you say tensely, clutching the strap of your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white. Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your shoes and hurried out of the dressing room, their taunts echoing in your ears.

London streets glistened wetly as you made your way down the sidewalk. The recent rain left dark spots on the pavement. You pull your coat tighter around you, shivering in the damp night air. As you passed a rowdy pub, loud voices and laughter spilled out onto the street. Warm light and the smell of beer beckoned from within, but you hurried on without glancing in, not wanting to face anyone's eyes.

The entrance to the subway glimmers under the streetlamps. You descend the stairs slowly, your shoes clicking on the concrete steps. The underground platform was nearly empty at this late hour. A lone figure dozed on one of the wooden benches, and a teenage couple whispered together further down the tiles. Your eyes roam over the tiled walls and ads for shows you'd never see—anything to avoid looking at other people and risking a confrontation.

The screech of brakes announces the arrival of your train, followed by beams of lights illuminating the dark tunnel. You boarded the mostly empty carriage and sat down, watching the dark tunnel walls pass by. On the opposite side, your weary reflection in the glass glances back at you.

Soulless.

Soulless ballerina.

TWENTY-THREE YEARS HAVE GONE BY: Thirteen times, you were part of the corps de ballet in Swan Lake. And now, the new director—whom they “imported” directly from somewhere in France to replace the old one—announces that the next season will be Swan Lake. You don't have anything against it—why should you? Thirteen times. Thirteen times in the corps de ballet, and this time will make no difference to you; just another faceless dancer in the flock, never the Swan Queen—they wouldn't risk a soulless ballerina in the spotlight. But wouldn't audiences grow bored of the same classic retold so often?

"Now now, I know you are all tired of this ballet," he said calmly. "But we will be doing something different - a new interpretation, with a fresh artistic vision. This will be Swan Lake as you have never seen it before. Rehearsals will focus on bringing new emotional depth and dimensionality to these iconic roles. Who knows – maybe some new faces will emerge for leading roles. I’m looking forward to seeing what you all can do. Now let us begin."

The familiar piano notes of our warm-up piece drifted through the studio as you took your place at the barre, fingers curling around the worn wood. You close your eyes and focus on steadying your breathing. Even when your muscles hurt from fatigue, you persist through well-known stretching exercises with a focused effort. Your eyelids flutter open, and out of the corner of your eye, you see the new director watching silently at the edge, his sharp eyes taking in each dancer.

“One.. and.. two.. and..”

As you move on to tendus and plies, you let the rhythm of the count wash over you – “.. three.. and.. four.. and..” Your burning thighs, your stretching calves, your flexing toes. "First position...and plié. Second position...and tendu. Third position...and rond de jambe." and the coach's familiar count. Your mind wanders as the dancers continue, thinking about the director's words about seeking new depths. Stealing a glance through the mirror, your eyes returned to the man—his ringed fingers in front of his lips as he pondered.

The music continues to play, swelling with a crescendo. You concentrate on your movements again, lifting your legs high according to standard and extending your lines through fingertips.

You found your eyes drifting to the director's reflection in the mirror more and more. The coach's voice faded into a blur as you studied his intense expression, watching for any sign of interest or approval. But time and again, his gaze passed over you without pause, lingering instead on Claire or Amelia as they executed perfect pirouettes or graceful penche poses. A familiar ache of longing and envy twisted in your stomach. No matter how hard you focused or how flawlessly you hit each position, you remained invisible to him.

Your breaths are shallow, and your head is whirling. Your eyes couldn't stop following him; he was walking around watching dancers who weren't you. He spoke to the coach, then stepped back with his hands linked behind his back. Still not you. As the music nears the end and the dancers have transitioned into combination movements, he still doesn't look at you.

You know the truth: this will be your fourteenth Swan Lake, and you will once again blend into the anonymous corps de ballet. The reflection of a woman in the mirror—your reflection, somber with lifeless eyes and dull hair pulled back in tight bun. The director stated that he wanted to bring forth new depths and emotional aspects to distinguish his Swan Lake from those of other opera houses, therefore it's fitting that he didn't choose you. As an empty ache expands in your chest, you accept the truth: this is your fourteenth Swan Lake, being another swan for the fourteenth time.

The director won’t choose you.

He won't choose you.

He won't choose...

You.

He chose you. You don't know why or how.

An hour later, you find yourself standing in Studio A, facing uncertainly across the hardwood floor. Five of the girls sat at the end of the room while the director watched Claire give her interpretation of Odette in her white swan act. You watch her movements critically, noting the slight wobble in her lower back and how her port de bras could be straighter. Her pirouettes needed more control and spotting—you counted two extra turns that threw off her balance. Then she launched into the black swan's sinister variations. Gone was the white swan, replaced by a vixenish temptress oozing sensuality from her pores. The director made a few thoughtful comments you didn't quite catch before dismissing her.

The director breathed out your name and you were quick on your feet. He crossed his arms over his chest as you took your place in the center. You looked at the girls behind you through the mirror reflection, then at the director, then signaled the pianist to begin.

The famous White Swan melody plays, and you start. Plie, tendu, glissade—your limbs moved through the steps as they had a thousand times, polished, technically perfect. Your movements rely on muscle memory, analyzing your every move through a critical lens. First pose: left arm extended, back straight, neck long. Check. The second one: right leg stretched to the sky, toes pointed to the max. But was your ankle tilted just now? You furrowed your brows while making a mental note to adjust. Entering another glissade, you land on the ball of my foot, keeping your plie low. One.. and.. two. You count the seconds, nitpicking any imperfections.

“Slow down, dear, find your breath.” The director's voice cuts through your thoughts. Find your breath? You were in complete control of your breathing, hitting every mark precisely as the music demanded. What more should you find?

You barreled ahead through the choreography, unwilling to let up on your own rigid standards even as he continued offering feedback. "Loosen your shoulders...savor each moment rather than rushing to the next...let us see you feel the music, not just hear it."

But you are feeling it. You feel every crescendo and decrescendo—you stay in rhythm with the music as the score enters the ritardando section. How could he say you didn't feel the music when you lived and breathed each score? You knew this piece inside and out. From the opening notes, you have remembered not just the choreography but every key change and tempo variation. By the time you sank into your final pose, you were a bundle of nerves.

“Your technique is superb, but so tightly wound,” the director said. “Try to loosen up your lines and embrace the artistry, not just the steps. Now, show me your Black Swan.”

As the dark notes of the Black Swan coda swirl, you pour all your focus into hitting each precise movement with flawless technique. You arch into an arabesque, extending your working leg to the maximum while maintaining perfect turnout. Your spot was fixed, and your balance was unwavering. You continue through the practiced motions, and you fly into your final fouetté combo. As the last note faded, you struck your ending pose.

Slowly, you straightened your body and lifted your gaze to meet his, pressing your sweaty palms together tightly. The director remained silent, hand in front of his mouth, and looked you up and down in a way that made you want to flee. But, you restrained yourself, waiting patiently for his consideration. The pressure in the room was so intense that it made you suffocate.

After what felt like eternity, he gave a small nod – neither acceptance nor rejection. “Thank you, Mademoiselle, that was… illuminating. Please check the cast list tomorrow morning – we will announce our decisions then.”

The compliment is ambiguous, with two implications that you know tend toward the negative. Your anxiety failed to calm down, and all you could muster was a hushed thank you before you left the studio in a daze, questions still swirling around unanswered like always.

Now here you are, unfortunate enough to be under the wailing sky of London with minimal cover from a shuttered cafe. The dense fog and wind impede your eyesight, making it difficult to see the towering structures. On the left side, several cafes and pubs radiate their orange lights from within, beckoning anyone in need of somewhere to go for a quick drink or two. Anyone but you, apparently.

The city streets felt hauntingly deserted through the deluge of falling water. Shivering even in your coat and tights, you knelt down and tightened your scarf. Puddles of water begin to form in the potholes, and you desperately hope that the rain will stop soon; you still have a long ride home on the subway to prepare for tomorrow.

Just then, a splash of heavy footsteps caught your attention.

Through the sheets of rainfall, you glimpsed a tall figure hurrying down the sidewalk, taking in what little details you could discern. His leather jacket and boots, yet the way he hunched his broad shoulders against the storm conveyed a certain roughness. You squinted to make out his face, only to find it covered by a mask and a hood pulled too low. It's unsettling, but disturbingly, it makes you enthusiastically guess what lies beneath it—was he handsome or scarred? Young or weathered by experience? It intrigued you so much that you didn't realize he was only three steps away from you.

As the stranger approaches, you take more details that should have set off alarms. His all-black leather jacket may have been fine material, but it was worn and faded. And although broad-shouldered, his build spoke more of hardened muscle than gentility. Everything about him screams danger. When he drew up beside you, you intended to duck past and continue on your way.

But something held you rooted to the spot.

Now, two strangers stood side by side, between them were raindrops dragged cruelly by the cold wind. His towering figure was as still as a statue; for a man his size, he was skilled enough to be almost invisible, almost. The scent of him washed over you then—alcohol, but not the refined wines and spirits of high society. This was something rougher, meant to burn away thought rather than enhance it. Beneath that, cigarette smoke and a musky men’s cologne, attempting to cover something.

The man is still silent, and you should've taken this as your second chance to leave. There are only two possibilities for a man like him: a perverted stalker or a serial killer—most likely the latter, because for what reason would he decide to take shelter under the awning of a dark bankrupt cafe with a woman when the surrounding pubs are still serving happy hour?

While the stranger settles against the wall, you notice his large hand drift casually into his pants pocket. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in panic wondering what weapon he might pull out – a knife, or worse. All instincts screamed to run away, but your feet remained rooted to the ground, frozen.

“Nasty night.”

Your body comes to a complete stop. The air is forgotten, and you wonder if you really heard him speak just now or if you were just hallucinating. He has a roughness to his voice, gravels, and a low range with a hint of timbre muffled by his dark mask. Unknowingly turning toward him, you stared at his side profile until he met your gaze, and you swiftly looked straight forward again.

“Uh, y-yes, quite a storm,” You stuttered in reply, cursing your trembling voice. Gripping your duffel bag tighter, you tried not to say anything that might offend him.

Minutes pass, the rain as the only noise. Finally, he spoke again, "Subway, yeah?" Between the sound of the rain and his muffled ones, you tried hard to make out what he was saying. After fully understanding it, you give it a nod.

“Yes, the subway. Though it may be closed by now with the weather.”

The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes. From the corner of your eye, you knew he was taking off his mask. Your heart beats fast as you resist the urge to turn your head, settling to look at the dark street in front of you instead. Smoke wafts between you both, creating faint, short-lived tendrils in the air.

The two of you were in silence. You wanted to talk to him again but didn't know what there was to say; it could be that he just wants to smoke with a company, a quiet company. He let out a puff of fresh cigarette smoke, and you inhaled it all. Toxins are bad for the skin and lungs, and yet you're better off suffocating than giving the impression that you're disturbed.

“Subway's closed, like you said. No sense waiting in the wet.” He took the last drag and threw the cigarette butt into the gutter. “Come on then. Pub's the best place for now.” His voice muffled again – he had put his mask back on.

You hesitated at his offer, biting your lip as you weighed the options rapidly in your mind. On one hand, the rain shows no signs of letting up, and this awning provides only a little protection at best. But to follow a strange man through the streets, alone, allowing him to take you to a spot where inebriation may be present—where his worst pals might be waiting. Girls your age being spiked is something you hear about a lot.

Shaking your head, you manage a small smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I'll be right here. Best not to trouble you further on such a night.”

He tilts his head, his eyes peering from the mask's shadows as if reading your unspoken fears. Does he see the consideration behind your polite refusal—how now you are a vulnerable woman, and this relative anonymity without further conversation is a safe option, despite the discomfort? Within his dark eyes, there was a stirring that you didn't understand. Pity? Or mockery? Under his towering height and massive body, you were nothing but a frightened rabbit.

Gusts of wind drive cold droplets under the awning. You suppressed a shiver, hugging yourself tighter. “Really, I'll be fine. The rain can't last forever." A forced laugh follows your words.

You seize the chance to stare back at him. It was impossible for you to know what calculations were going through his mind, or what emotion lay beneath that mask. It's pretty unfair, you think, that he can hide under a hood that nearly makes him invisible in the dark of night while he can see all of you—a greasy-haired woman hoping the man in front of her will respect her dumb decision. It's the least he can do.

Just when you think this staring game would go on for another minute, he turns his gaze. “Suit yourself, love.” His voice comes out gruff, and your heart drops thinking you've let him down (but, for what?). "But you'll catch your death waiting in the rain."

A pang of guilt crashes into you as he turns his shoe the other way. For safety's sake, you rejected him, thinking you're being sensible; but there's an authoritative voice in the back of your mind telling you, "He's the first nice guy in a long time, and look what you gave in exchange for his kind offer." Self-doubt is playing in your heart. His back was already turning, boots squelching away into the rain.

“Wait!” You called after him, hating how small and frightened you sounded. He paused and searched back, eyes questioning through the mask. Steeling your nerves, you step into the downpour. “I'm coming with you.”

If this guy thinks you're an indecisive woman who can't even commit to a decision for more than five seconds, thank goodness he didn't say anything other than give you another stare. He led the way as he went, holding the door of one of the busy London pubs. More liquor and tobacco smells. You both entered, bringing a burst of damp wind with you. The warmth and noise within are a shock after the storm outside.

He steers you towards the fireplace, shrugging out of his soaked jacket. “Get yourself by the hearth,” he said, nodding to an empty chair. “Dry off.”

You did as he said gratefully, holding your hands out to the flames. The colors returned to your cheeks; fear slowly evaporated away.

“What'll you have, love?” He asked, and you frowned before understanding. Oh, drinks.

“Something light,” is all you say, eyes lowered again. The man gave a nod and went to give the bartender the order.

He returned not long after, setting the drinks down and taking the chair opposite to yours, stretching out his long legs toward the fire. You took the gin with a murmured “thank you.” He settled with his own—whiskey in a glass, neat. You glanced at the remains of rainwater dripping heavily from his clothes in a growing puddle at his boots. The drinks were enjoyed in companionable silence, still trying to find calm after the storm's fury.

The fire crackles merrily as you sit. Finding your voice, you clear your throat gently.

“Thank you, for…” Your fingers tapped nervously on the glass. “Well, for everything, I suppose.”

His eyes lifted from the flames to meet yours, and you offered a small smile. “I’m (Y/N).”

As the name slips out, you berate yourself. How stupid, giving up something as personal as your name! This man was still a stranger, no matter his kindness so far. For all you know, bad intentions could be lurking behind that calm gaze even now. But in the cozy glow of the fire, your sense of awareness wavered, lulled to sleep in a false sense of security.

He merely nodded, moving his hand to the mask hook over his ear without expressing much emotion. Your eyes widened, and your heart was pounding. The breath in your lungs stilled in anticipation as the fabric peeled slowly back, inch by inch. Is he about to...?

The man removed his mask, appearing at ease and lacking in secrecy. He looks at you, and you quickly look aside, pretending to offer him a little privacy. You wait for him to finish, to put it on again, but he never does. Is it okay to look-

Deciding to no longer be the uneasy one (since the guy looks completely unconcerned as he takes a long sip of his drink), you follow suit and allow the liquid to cascade down your throat. There's a slight thump as your glass hits the aged wood. Your curiosity is piqued even more by the fact that he hasn't made any moves to wear it again. Slowly, you raised your gaze, meeting that unveiled gaze – a secret not meant for your eyes.

Blonde eyelashes – pretty. Faint shadows hung under the eyes. Light stubble. Scars dotted his jaw, thin white slashes earned from unknown origins. His nose sat slightly off-center, clearly broken more than once in past altercations—bar fights, perhaps? Though something about the precise thinness of the lines didn't seem right for brawling. Regardless of which one, he is clearly no stranger to violence, and being near him is enough for someone to sense the danger he was capable of.

But, there is something about that powerful jawline, the intensity found only in his hooded eyes, spokes of steel and intricate details that defy explanation. Fire in his eyes. Even after taking off the mask and grasping it between his lengthy fingers—just when you think all the curtains have been exposed—he still remains a mystery.

(And you're just another gullible woman who believes she knows how to solve the puzzle.)

You wait; surely he will offer his own name in return now that you've bared yours. But seconds ticked by in the silence, and still he said nothing.

A flush crept up your neck at the realization that he had no intention of reciprocating. Did you misread this entire meeting? Why did he bring you here if not to talk? You observe his stony profile, wishing you could see past him. Did he intend to remain a mystery—an enigma full of intrigue? Or is it actually a test to see how long your curiosity can last?

Your fingers fidget with the condensation on your glass. Under this new tension, the easy silence fell away. Seeking an escape from the awkwardness, you looked for something, anything. Your gaze landed on a group of regulars in the corner, laughing boisterously.

“Do you, um, come here often?” You ask lamely, cursing your inability to make small talk. But there was an amused glint in his eyes that put you back at ease.

“Aye, I'm 'ere often enough,” he replied, taking another sip. You assume he finds humor in your discomfort, rather than mocking it. The knot in your shoulders loosened, and you relaxed into a smile again.

For good or ill, this man stirred something deep inside you—and you're desperate to scavenge for light, safe conversation topics to continue the conversation.

“So, um, what kind of work do you—” You catch yourself, cheeks warming. Too personal to ask a stranger met by chance. You let out a dry laugh. “Sorry, I don't mean to pry. It’s just… making conversation.”

At the small thud of his glass meeting the scarred wood of the table, your eyes darted up in surprise. Already empty—have you been so lost in thought that you missed him finishing? A swell of questions rose inside you as you watched his movements for a clue. Would he signal the bartender for a refill, extending your time together? Or was this the end—the strange encounter came to a close because you somehow offended him for prying too much?

“Military.”

Unexpectedly, he gave a single-word reply. Military—that explains a lot, from his physique and bearing to the scars and the lingering scents that cling to his coat.

"Oh!" was all you could think of as a response. More questions swim to the surface, demanding to be asked, but you quash them, not wanting to risk being presumptuous a second time.

Feeling indebted, you then offer, "I do ballet, with the Metropolitan Opera." The words slip out before you can check them, and inwardly you curse yourself once again.

Great. Name, job, and workplace. Why don't you give him your address next?

You bit your lip. Risking a glance up, you hope he won't take your openness as foolishness. His quiet acceptance has so far calmed your nerves, and now you find yourself craving that ease again.

“Must be rewarding,” is all he offers—you grow accustomed to his terse responses. Plain, perhaps even half-hearted, but you smile as though he had read you a lovely poetry full of flattery.

“Yeah, it's really rewarding to dance and like, share that joy with others.”

Liar. What can a soulless ballerina have to share? So far, frustration is what you inflict on your director, and criticism is secretly a “reward” for your fellow dancers. You understand perfectly well, from the top of your head to the balls of your toes, that there is no joy that you can share. However, this man didn't know. He doesn't know who or how you are. Since the very beginning, you have spoken truth to him; allow this one deception to pass.

Your fingertips made a gentle squeak as they rubbed across the condensation on your glass. “If I may ask… what inspired you to serve?”

For a moment, he was quiet, considering with eyes turned to the flames.

"It was a calling, I suppose," came the gruff reply. “The world had its darkness even then. Felt a duty to stand against it.”

After providing an answer, the two of you returned to silence. You gazed thoughtfully into the flames, thinking of how you might spark another conversation that didn't rely solely on question and answer. The last thing you want is for him to view you as overbearing or pushy.

“What drew you to ballet, then?”

It was unexpected for him to pose a question, and you were taken aback when he did. Your lips curved into a smile as you thought about the answer, and your mother's role in starting it all.

"Well, I think it started because Mom thought ballet was 'cute'." A tone of amusement permeates your voice. “She had no idea about the art or discipline—she just wanted to see her little girl swirl and spin in frilly costumes. But I had fun dancing, dressing up, and listening to the music...”

Somewhere in your head, your mother's voice echoes again. Bitter and resentful, encased in an everlasting nightmare. Your mother stood in the audience, and you ran towards her, tutu skirt fluttering gently. She wiped her eyes and knelt down in front of you, whispering, "You were marvelous, sweetheart," as she drew you in. She smiles, but it stops short of her eyes. Then a string of apologies, saying that he’s gone—that she knew he had promised you to be here, but he's gone. Dad is gone. And he'll never see what you can do.

“My first real performance, in elementary school… I was so proud when the curtain fell.” You continue, remembering another face that has long been a ghost in the past.

("Why did you let that man walk away?")

You clear your throat softly. “After that, it just felt right, you know? Like I'd found where I belong.”

Liar.

Steering away from the bitter past, you change the direction of the conversation again. “Are you from around here?” It's a simple question, maybe even stupid. His accent alone makes it plain he grew up in this land, but, no matter how long you've lived in England, you have a small grasp of regional dialects within the country.

“I mean, I know you're obviously from here—your accent kind of gives it away.” You waved. “I just meant—is this area home for you? Or are you from elsewhere originally?”

The barest upturn of his lips catches your eye. Was that a smile? On this gruff, grumpy stranger who has only revealed so little so far? Your heart beats at the sight, rare as a summer snowflake. He reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette, and held it between his dry lips. The lighter ignited, and white smoke was blown out.

“Manchester, originally,” he said, intonation hanging. He took another drag of his cigarette before exhaling slowly and adding, “A different world now. You?”

“I've been in the city for years now, but I'm from San Francisco.” You said. “When the chance came up to transfer here from my old opera house back home, I leapt at it. Felt it was time for a fresh start, to spread my wings and live on my own. And maybe get out from under my mom's feet—love her to bits, but she can be a bit much sometimes.”

From your own remarks, you can't help but question if mothers are as harsh on their sons or if this is solely reserved for daughters. Girls are taught to keep close to home and their hearts, while boys are free to roam and explore. Is it any wonder, then, that spreading your wings felt like escaping? You wanted to ask him but ended up lacing your tongue tightly.

The fire's burned low, just embers burning gently in the fireplace. Time passed unnoticed as the two of you sat chatting quietly. But outside, the rain began to subside until it was a fine patter on the roof.

“Storm’s passed, seems.”

As he speaks, you glance up to find his guarded mask has fallen once more into place. The easy openness that had soothed tired nerves now closed again – strangely making you bereft. A feeling of melancholy welled up in your chest at the thought of parting, of kissing away the intimate bubble the two of you had crafted and going back out there into the cold reality where you would be strangers again. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you searched for words.

“I suppose you're right… it has eased off some.” Your voice came out small and awkward to your own ears. Licking your dry lips, you added, “thank you, for your company. It was…nice, not to feel alone.”

He stood up, stretching his tall frame. After this, the spell of the evening will evaporate, and everything will return to the reality of loneliness once again.

“C'mon then, let's get you home,” he said gruffly, offering a hand to help you up. His strong hand envelops your smaller one—rough yet tender, sending warmth through your limbs that have little to do with the fire now dying.

Pushing through the heavy doors, the night air is a contrast to the warmth of the pub. Thick fog covered the streets, rain-slick stones glistening under the street lights. He waved at the first cab that passed—and you prayed it wouldn't stop so you could buy a little more time with him.

It stopped. The night was set to end.

He holds it while you slip inside. Through the open window, your eyes met his; he crouched beside the window, broad shoulders hunched. He's talking to the cab driver, but you can't hear it—not when your heart flutters madly in your breast over a single question. The ache of still not knowing his name. It seems wrong, unfair, that he knows you so well, yet you know nothing of him in return.

The cab lurches into motion, snapping the spell. Panic rises in your throat; you can't let him disappear into the night—to the back of your head like another passerby.

“Wait—please! I don't know your name."

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out in a desperate rush.

The second ticks by as you wait. He finds you foolish, for sure—just another desperate, nosy girl who wants to play detective the second she sees a puzzle. The clinginess in your request must have given the impression that you were a fool in love—gullible and name-obsessed.

Something shifts in his dark eyes, and you hope it's a wall crumbling away. Then, in his low rumble – “Simon.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, almost parting your lips in question before—

“Name's Simon,” he repeats.

(And the sun breaks through storm clouds.)

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gotta-bail-my-quails · 6 days ago

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crack (kinda?) theory: E-Soul's a cop and that's why he shot Moon

Preface: This is all entirely speculation. I could be wrong. I am a delusional mf so I need to say whatever's on my mind lmao

This episode we were introduced to the "clean-up" specialists with Blankster being able to induce amnesia with his punches. It's interesting, then, that E-Soul's PV has him standing in front of what is seemingly a memorial. A testament to never forget--we are then taken through a flashback of what seems to be a previous E-Soul's experience (considering the designs are different + the "past" E-Soul appears to have like, actual limbs). One of the few lines he has in the PV is this:

"You're a hero! Have you forgotten!"

Sure, that could be a mistranslation or a mere coincidence, but I'd like to suggest that E-Soul works along the same lines as the "clean-up" specialists--an agent of the association. Only, while they erase the traces of others, he is the one who must always remember. As they say, those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. And the history he remembers is one of unchecked heroes, abusing their powers. Specifically, he says that heroes "are those who bear the trust of the people" but :

"we pay the price that comes along." While I think this is obviously connected to the detrimental side effects of powers like Firm Man being unable to squat and Nice's OCD, what if it suggests that there needs to be a balance so that heroes do not abuse their powers? (if the side effects are on purpose though that'd be fucked). Or, rather, that heroes need to recall what their powers are for--to help people. After all, this episode we've had Miss J explicitly say heroes are nothing without their followers--yes, in the sense of the faith system--but also because heroes are there for the sake of their people.

So, why did he choose to kill Moon? What crime did our girlie commit by literally just existing? I think we need to ask a few other questions to get to the heart of that.

How and why did he get to the island at the same time Lin Ling did? Lin Ling is visibly healed when he comes to Moon--E soul had plenty of time to come and kill her before this. Although as far as I can tell, people don't seem to know Moon is (was) alive after the battle with Godeye (yknow, the whole focus being on Lin Ling to the point everyone just seemed to move on from Nice immediately), I find it somewhat unlikely he found out just as L0 was going to visit her and then hurried over, unless he has teleportation abilities too. We did see him chasing a speedster in episode 3 I think, so it isn't impossible his powers are at least partly movement based. That being said, I'm going to assume he already knew Moon was there and had prepared means to come to her beforehand. Only, he chose this point to specifically.

Why? Because she still had trust-given powers. However, as she herself said at the end of the episode, she had left the teleporter behind. And when did E-Soul kill her? Right as Lin Ling was going to give it back to her.

If she is still dead in the minds of people, she obviously isn't using her powers to help them. In fact, as long as she doesn't come out publicly, she can use her powers however she likes. So by gaining the teleporter back, she instantly becomes unchecked. She becomes exactly someone E-Soul might want to stop. It's only when she looks like she's going to take the teleporter that she dies--when she reaches for power.

(And it would also kinda explain why E-Soul is rank 9, below a freaking dog. The 10th spot is precarious because it is the barrier between the top 10 and the rest of the heroes--people aim for it almost as much as the position of X, and it's constantly changing. E-Soul, as number 9, can essentially evaluate who gets to move past rank 10 and into the top heroes proper. After all, we saw how L0 and Firm Man fell and changed in rank so swiftly.)

#keeping it at. he's a cop is lowkey funny tho #it'd be fucked if her powers actually killed her like hell #tbhx #tbhx spoilers #tbhx theory #to be hero x #tu bian yingxiong x #tbhx e soul #tbhx shtick #fandom shtick #long post

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usafphantom2 · 11 months ago

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@CcibChris via X

usafphantom2: Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it………….

#ww2 #air war

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sophieinwonderland · 1 year ago

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Debunking Anti(-endo's)Misinfo. AKA: How are anti-endos so bad at sources????

(The original)

Oh, well good on you for trying to cover everything! Nice of anti-endos to finally start trying to use science to prove their arguments. I'm sure these sources will totally be reliable and will prove your points beyond a shadow of a doubt, and that you won't just be falling flat on your face with every single attempt at basic reading comprehension, and end up repeatedly make a complete fool of yourself.

Let's go!

Off to a pretty strong start, acknowledging that many endogenic systems don't have DID or OSDD. Sadly, that basic fact is something that seems to escape most anti-endos. So with this in mind, I think it's safe to say the goal of this post is going to be to prove...

You can't possibly have DID without trauma.

You can't possibly have OSDD without trauma.

You can't be a system without DID/OSDD.

Let's read through and see how they'll do at proving their points by the end. I promise you, the results... won't surprise you. 😉

Well, there goes that strong start.

The source here is a Carrd and so-called "common sense."

Meanwhile, in the World Health Organization's ICD-11, alters or dissociative identities are described as "distinct personality states." In the same page, it's stated that you can have multiple "distinct personality states" without a disorder.

This is information from the World Health Organization affirming that you can be plural without a disorder. And I think that prevails over your so-called "common sense."

See also these screenshots from the plurality chapter of Transgender Mental Health, a book published by the American Psychiatric Association:

Finally, I really want to put a focus on this line of logic: "you cannot have alters without having a disorder, this is common sense as it's not normal to have alters."

Normal has multiple meanings in different contexts. The ICD-11's boundary with normality uses normal to mean "non-pathological." But this post seems to be using "normal" in the lay way to mean "common."

And that makes this particular rhetoric extremely dangerous and harmful to many communities. "If it's not common, it's a mental illness," was the basis for homosexuality and being transgender being listed as mental illnesses. "Most people don't think this way, so there's something wrong with them."

This could also easily be used to pathologize Otherkin and other alterhumans as mentally ill because it's not "normal" to identify as an animal.

The modern World Health Organization and American Psychiatric Association recognize the fact that simply thinking unusually or differently isn't an illness or disorder.

Statements like yours do not exist within a vacuum, but harken back to decades past when any non-typical thinking would have you labeled as having a disorder that needed treated.

Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.

Let's be thankful to live in a world today where our differences aren't considered disorders. And let's not resort to ideologies that threaten to return us to those days past.

Wait... who suggests this? Who are they? I think I need more info...

So... "some researchers."

Also, can we talk about how this starts off with "sometimes called multiple personality disorder." I checked to see if this was before the name changed in the ICD (which I believe was 2015) and it doesn't seem to be! Oldest archive I can find is 2020!

Rethink.org is a charity.

These are not peer-reviewed papers.

The page references "some researchers" without names or sources.

I have no idea who authored this or if they're qualified at all in this field.

This is a terrible source. A web page by an anonymous author citing other unnamed authors with no reason to think anyone who wrote this had any idea what they were talking about!

This says DID is caused by many things, and lists trauma as only one that's included. This doesn't back up the idea DID/OSDD can only be caused by trauma, and suggests the opposite.

Oh, and "it's also known as split personality disorder." 😔

Go home WebMD.

Usually associated with doesn't mean it's a requirement, and in fact implies that it isn't always.

"Is associated with." "Can be a response to trauma."

Reiterating that the first two goals here were to prove you can't have DID or OSDD without trauma. And these aren't doing that.

An association doesn't mean there's a causation, and it doesn't mean that association is there in 100% of cases.

"often develop."

Like with "usually", you wouldn't use the word often if if something always happened. The choice of wording implies you can have dissociative disorders without trauma.

Are... they messing with us right now???

I swear, you can't have a post that sets out with the goal of disproving the existence of endogenic plurality, and then use quotes that seem to consistently imply there can be other causes for DID and not pick up on that theme!

Oh, yay! We finally got a quote that's actually trying to argue the point we started with.

But, again, this runs into a similar issue to the ReThink.org one. This is a random independent organization. There is no author for this article. It hasn't undergone peer review like an academic paper would.

There is no evidence the person who wrote this article is actually educated in dissociative disorders.

And finally back to "usually."

You must be so proud...

Source Round-Up

There was a lot here, so let's just recap.

6 out of 8 of these sources only say that DID is "usually" or "often" or "can be" caused by or associated with trauma. These actually imply there are cases where it's NOT caused by trauma, going against the original goals of this post.

Finally, there were two sources, Rethink and Mind.org, which did suggest DID is just caused by trauma, full stop. But both of these are extremely questionable as sources.

Neither named their authors. There's no indication what the review process is for their websites. And "Rethink" merely said this is what "some researchers" believe.

So let's double back to those goals set at the beginning.

You can't possibly have DID without trauma: One source says this, but the reliability of that source is questionable. Another source says some researchers are saying this but doesn't name any researchers or cite those sources. Meanwhile, the other six sources imply that it IS possible for DID to exist without trauma.

You can't possibly have OSDD without trauma: Neither of the two sources that suggest DID can only be caused by trauma mention OSDD at all.

You can't be a system without DID/OSDD: None of the sources suggest you need DID/OSDD to be a system or to be plural.

So far, you've failed to prove you can't be a system without DID or OSDD. You've failed to show you can't have OSDD without trauma. And the case for DID being exclusive to trauma frankly looks weaker than before you started talking.

Incredible work so far!!!

And I mean that in the way that nothing about this is remotely credible!

Ugh. There is SO much wrong here. First, no sources for their claims about tulpamancy.

Now, tulpamancy draws its name from a Tibetan Buddhist practice called sprul pa.

This is not the same practice though. And the Tibetan Buddhist practice is NOT CALLED TULPAMANCY.

Something which should be obvious to anyone who knows even the most basic facts about language, with the -mancy suffix being derived from Latin. And tulpamancy as a practice generally isn't religious.

From Dr. Samuel Veissiere of McGill University:

The community is primarily divided between so-called psychological and metaphysical explanatory principles. In the psychological community, neuroscience (or folk neuroscience) is the explanation of choice. Tulpas are understood as mental constructs that have achieved sentience. The metaphysical explanation holds that Tulpas are agents of supernatural origins that exist outside the hosts’ minds, and who come to communicate with them. Of 118 respondents queried on the question, 76.5% identified with the psychological explanation, 8.5% with the metaphysical, and 14% with a variety of “other” explanations, such as a mixture of psychological and metaphysical.

When discussing the research into tulpamancy, we're not discussing a religious or spiritual practice that's been validated by psychologists.

We're talking about a primarily psychological practice that's been validated by psychologists.

And as for the DSM quote, it confirms that religious practices aren't a disorder. Cool. But it also implies that religious practices can result in multiple distinct personality states. Hence why they needed that criterion. It's not stated as explicitly in the DSM as in the ICD, but the implication is there, especially when taken together.

Whether you call these "alters" or not is up to you. Most endogenic systems aren't using the word "alter" to describe their headmates.

But regardless of the word, what the research is showing is that there are multiple phenomena which can result in people having multiple self-conscious agents sharing the same body.

I mean, you've still done a really bad job at showing DID and OSDD form purely from trauma, with many of your sources straight up saying the opposite.

And remember, a lot of mixed origin systems will say that their other headmates aren't caused by or related to their disorder. And there are documented cases of people with DID both having alters associated with DID, and having non-aversive entities they commune with outside of that, as Kluft references in this paper:

The woman he describes here, who experienced ceding control to another entity who talked through her, would qualify as a mixed origin system in the modern plural community.

SIX OF YOUR EIGHT SOURCES LEFT THE DOOR OPEN FOR DID TO FORM WITHOUT TRAUMA!

NONE CLAIMED OSDD COULD ONLY COME FROM TRAUMA!

NONE CLAIMED YOU NEEDED DID OR OSDD TO BE PLURAL!

Your sources are NOT claiming what you think they're claiming!!!!!!!

If this is "all the proof you need," to say endogenic systems aren't valid, it's clear you were only ever interested in confirming your worldview.

But surely you can't seriously think this will convince anyone who isn't already indoctrinated!

Not even addressing this in full. It's such a blatant strawman that it's not worth my time.

There are similarities between plurality and being LGBTQ. Especially to the many trans systems out there who are seeing anti-endos use the same rhetoric that transmeds have. Or like you did earlier, are endorsing the same types of views that led to homosexuality being pathologized until the 70s. But nobody is saying it's the exactly the same!

I'm not sure what this is specifically referring to. But it might be about the line in the differential diagnosis for DID in the PTSD section where it's stated DID may not be preceded by trauma or have co-occurring PTSD symptoms.

It does also say in another section that DID is associated with trauma, but it never actually says that's the only way to get DID.

This is a straight-up lie. Most sources used by endogenic systems are less than a decade old, with some being as recent as 2023.

Here's the breakdown of some of the dates in @guardianssystem's doc, for reference:

I mean, I feel like part of the reason nobody has been able to disprove it is because a lot of its more specific claims have been really hard to test.

But that's neither here nor there.

The bigger issue you'll run into is that the creators of the theory you're citing have stated that there may be other ways for people to be plural. Or as they phrased it, having "conscious and self-conscious dissociated parts."

The above quote is from two of the three authors of The Haunted Self, the creators of the theory of the structural dissociation.

The TOSD is made to propose a way trauma can cause dissociative disorders to develop. But it does NOT suggest you need to have dissociative disorders to be plural, and I doubt the authors appreciated their work being twisted like that

Final Grade:

F-

This started with three goals.

Let's look back at them one last time.

You can't possibly have DID without trauma.

You can't possibly have OSDD without trauma.

You can't be a system without DID/OSDD.

By the end of this, have any of these claims successfully been proven?

I don't feel they have.

The first claim is what all the sources tried to focus on. But most of the sources didn't say that and didn't support it. All but two implied that DID could possibly form other ways.

And for the others? Nothing suggests OSDD can only be caused by trauma.

And you failed to provide any sources that suggested you couldn't be plural without DID and OSDD.

You completely and utterly failed to find decent sources to back up your claims, and to make a compelling case for them, at every conceivable juncture.

If I were you, I would be embarrassed to have put out something of such poor quality.

What have we learned:

Non-disordered and endogenic plurality has been supported and validated across the psychological field, including the World Health Organization's ICD-11 and Trasngender Mental Health which has been reviewed and published by the American Psychiatric Association.

The creators of the theory of structural dissociation believe it might be possible that "self-conscious dissociative parts of the personality" might form without trauma and that this needs to be further researched.

Tulpamancy is a mostly psychological practice that has been studied and validated by psychologists.

Anti-endos are really bad at sources.

Conversely, the majority of endogenic sources are actual peer reviewed academic papers. And contrary to false claims here, many of the papers are actually very recent.

(Tagging some tags from the original post)

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armpirate · 19 days ago

Text

RED || Jungkook | Ch. 15

MASTERLIST Previous || Next

Pairings: Demon!Jungkook x fem!reader

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, fantasy, past life

Warnings: Explicit language, mention of death and suicide, demonology, violence, rough sex

Summary: Y/n thought her life couldn't get worse after losing her parents in a tragic accident. Years after, she's aware of everyone moving forward, while she's in the same place, isolated and alone. She struggles to find meaning in a world that seems indifferent to her grief. Desperate for comfort, to feel the deep connection she had been missing, she starts the manifestation, expecting an inoffensive entity to walk with her that rough path. What she doesn't know is that she awoke the mysterious entity tied to an old necklace around her neck.

Jungkook, a mysterious and seductive figure, appears in her life, offering the company she craves. But as his presence grows stronger, so does the unsettling sense that there's more to him -and the necklace- than meets the eye, unfolding all the reasons that took him to that place.

Now, as the past bleeds into the present, Y/n must fight with her growing feelings for the demon who seems familiar yet dangerous. Jungkook is determined to reclaim his power, but in doing so, he may doom Y/n once again. Bound by fate, the two are locked in a dangerous mix of love, redemption, and the looming threat of destruction.

Will they break the curse that has haunted them both, or will history repeat itself with devastating consequences?

Chapter duration: 16 minutes

Chapter warnings: smut, explicit language, unprotected sex

The room was dim, the only source of light coming from the soft glow of the city outside. They weren't touching. Not really. But they were close -closer than they had ever been.

Y/n laid on her side, Jungkook just a breath away, their bodies separated by only a sliver of space. The weight of his jacket still lingered on her skin, and his warmth, even from inches apart, made it impossible to forget that he was there.

She had no idea how they had ended up like that. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that -for once- neither of them had the energy to fight whatever this was.

For the first time since being bound to him, she wasn't trying to escape.

For the first time, he wasn't teasing her.

—You're staring —Jungkook's voice was quieter than usual.

Not mocking. Not amused.

Y/n blinked. She hadn't realized.

—I was just thinking.

—Dangerous habit.

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Silence stretched between them for a moment before she spoke again.

—Your tattoos —she murmured—. They're different, aren't they?

Jungkook exhaled softly, eyes flickering down to his arm where intricate black ink coiled over his skin. He ran his fingers over them, tracing the patterns absentmindedly.

—They weren't always there —he admitted.

Y/n frowned.

—You mean... you got them after you...

—No —Jungkook interrupted, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes—. I didn't get them. They just... appeared. Every time I was summoned. More ink. More marks.

Y/n's breath caught.

—Why?

Jungkook tilted his head back slightly, eyes unreadable.

—A reminder, I guess —he muttered—. Every time someone pulled me out of wherever I was, they left something behind.

Y/n swallowed, staring at his arm like she could suddenly read the story written on his skin.

—So each one represents...?

—A summoner.

Y/n's stomach twisted. The ink was covering all of his arm, there was barely any skin visible under all of those drawings. Jungkook watched her reaction and let out a low chuckle, but there was no real amusement in it.

—You think it's tragic, don't you?

—I think it's cruel.

Jungkook's smirk faltered just slightly, his gaze flickering downward.

—Yeah —he muttered, voice quieter—. It was. It's a punishment though, it's supposed to be cruel for those who receive them. If it wasn't, it wouldn't be considered a punishment.

The silence stretched between them again, but this time, it felt heavier. Then, Y/n noticed something else -the glint of metal catching the faint light. His piercings.

—What about those? —she asked, voice softer now.

Jungkook didn't answer right away. Then, finally:

—They showed up after my first death.

A shiver ran down Y/n's spine. Jungkook turned his head, looking at her fully now, eyes darker than before.

—They're not just for decoration —he murmured—. Each one is a wound I had when I died. The rings in my lips? Cuts. The ones on my brow? A deep gash that wouldn't stop bleeding.

Y/n couldn't stop staring. He looked so unaffected when he said it, but she could feel it now -the weight of it, the way his past still clung to him even after all these years.

—I don't remember my first life, I don't remember why I killed myself. I just remember waking up in a dark place when I thought it was all over, I remember hearing the laments and pleas from afar... until they thought it was long enough and chose to punish me —he scoffed, clicking his tongue.

—Who?

—My little club of fans —he mumbled—. They didn't show up the other times I was summoned, although it's also true I didn't get to step outside the other times to know if that's a limit that makes them show up.

Y/n looked at him. And, despite his tough exterior, despite his usual cocky smile, she didn't feel like he deserved being tortured for centuries. Whatever he did in his previous life, she was convinced it was as bad for him to have to go through all of that.

—Why are you telling me this? —she asked.

Jungkook hesitated. Then, almost imperceptibly, he exhaled.

—Because you're not running away.

His voice was softer now, a confession hidden in those words. Y/n's heart pounded. She wasn't running away. And, maybe for the first time, neither was he.

Jungkook didn't say anything at first, just watching her. Y/n wasn't sure what had possessed her to ask him such a personal question, but now, with his past laid bare in front of her, she felt like the air between them had changed.

She had never seen him like this before. And maybe it was because of that -because for once, she could see the cracks beneath his usual cocky smirk- that she felt the sudden urge to speak. To finally say it. She exhaled slowly.

—You're not the only one with scars.

Jungkook's gaze flickered, locking onto hers. His face gave nothing away, but he didn't interrupt. He waited.

Y/n swallowed, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of the sheets beneath her.

—My ex —she started, voice quiet, but steady—, Jackson. You already know him, and it's not a big surprise we didn't end on good terms.

Jungkook's jaw tensed, but he didn't move. Y/n looked away, staring at the ceiling, as if it would make it easier to say.

A breath. Then another.

—We dated for a while. I thought he loved me. I was... stupid.

Jungkook's brows furrowed slightly, but he stayed silent. Y/n clenched her hands.

—One night, he filmed us —she whispered—. I wasn't entirely convinced, I can't even say I was comfortable, but I still did it because he wanted to try, and I never thought he'd cross a boundary to hurt me.

The air between them shifted instantly. Jungkook didn't move, but something in his eyes darkened.

Y/n let out a humorless laugh.

—I thought wrong —she sighed—. When things started getting difficult between us, when I tried to break up with him, he...

Her voice cracked. Jungkook didn't ask. He didn't need to.

—He posted it.

Jungkook's entire body went still. Y/n bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to keep going.

—He didn't want to break up, so he decided to post everything he had on me. Not just that video. Nudes. Stuff I sent him when I thought...

She stopped. Swallowed. Her throat felt tight, like she couldn't breathe, but she pushed through it.

—It spread. Everywhere. People at college, online, strangers... they all saw me. People I didn't even know messaged me, called me things I can't even repeat. Everyone in my neighbourhood had seen everything. If it wasn't the video, it was one of the pictures. People that weren't even in my faculty came on purpose to my classes just to look at me up close, as if I were some animal at the zoo.

Jungkook's hands clenched into fists. Y/n inhaled shakily, staring up at the ceiling as if she weren't in her body anymore.

—I wanted to disappear.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

—So I tried.

The words hung in the air between them. Jungkook's breath came out harsh and slow, his fists trembling slightly, but he didn't say anything.

Y/n let out a small, bitter laugh.

—It didn't work. But my parents... They found out. They panicked —she sighed—. They put everything aside just to focus on me. They never questioned me, they never asked why. They were just there —she could feel her voice shaking—. They were with me on every step of the trial against Jackson.

Her chest ached.

—The day the court decision came up and I saw that Jackson would still be able to live his life, like he did nothing wrong, like I was treated like a leper... I wanted to die —she could feel her eyes hurting by how she was holding back her tears—. My parents kept calling me after knowing the decision, but I was so devastated that I didn't have it on me to answer. They rushed home, because they were on a business trip together. They were scared I'd do something stupid if I was alone, but they never made it.

Jungkook's breath hitched. Y/n smiled, but it was empty.

—Car accident. Instant.

Jungkook sat up slightly. His expression was unreadable, but his entire body was tense, like he was barely keeping himself still.

—So, yeah —Y/n whispered—. You're not the only one who's been used and left behind.

Silence.

Y/n didn't know why she had told him. She had never told anyone—not in full, not like this. But somehow, lying next to Jungkook in the quiet, it had all spilled out before she could stop it.

For a long moment, he didn't say anything. He didn't reach for her, didn't whisper empty words of comfort.

He just... breathed. And then, after what felt like forever, he spoke again.

—I'll make him pay.

Y/n blinked.

—What?

Jungkook turned his head toward her. His eyes weren't soft anymore. They were fire.

—The next time I see him, I'll make sure the pain he feels is so intense that he'd rather die than bother to take a small intake of air.

Y/n's lips parted slightly, realization settling in.

—Just...

—He deserves it. And even that won't cover up for everything he put you through.

His voice was calm. Too calm. She swallowed, shaking her head.

—It doesn't matter anymore.

Jungkook scoffed, running his tongue over his teeth before exhaling sharply.

—You think I'm just going to let that slide? —he muttered, shaking his head—. Y/n, I don't let anyone get away with messing with what's mine.

Y/n stiffened.

—I'm not...

Jungkook turned fully toward her now, one arm propping him up as he leaned in closer.

—Aren't you?

Y/n's breath caught. The air was thick. Heavy. He was too close, too warm. And for the first time, she wasn't sure if the pounding in her chest was from fear, or from something else entirely.

—Ask me and I'll rip his guts out. Ask me anything and I'll do it. Just one command, Y/n.

—Hug me —she whispered.

Those words took him by surprise. It wasn't a command he was used to, it wasn't a command he wanted to hear, but, at the same time, it made him feel full. His heart skipped a harsh and loud beat when he looked down to find her beautiful eyes staring up at him.

As much as he hesitated, there was something that urged him to wrap his arms around her, so he did. He held her close, like she was a piece of glass he wanted to protect, like she was the most precious thing he had ever held. And, in a way, it felt like it.

Her hair was soft while he ran his fingers down through it. Y/n could tell he wasn't used to that type of intimacy, but something about the way he touched her, about the way he breathed, let her know he was meant to be touching her that way. So she snuggled closer. Her legs were intertwined with his, her fingers were holding onto his shirt, like he was going to leave if she didn't hold him as tight.

In that moment, the soft hum of the night outside their window faded into silence, leaving only the raw pulse of their beating hearts. Jungkook hesitated just a moment longer before stepping forward, his arms wrapping around her with a tenderness that belied his usual arrogance. His touch was warm and steady, a quiet promise that he would carry her through the lingering storm of past pain.

They sank onto the rumpled bed, the cool sheets contrasting with the heat of their skin as Jungkook drew her close. Y/n rested her head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, as if it were trying to mend the fractures in her own. His fingers traced gentle, deliberate patterns along her arm, each touch an unspoken apology for the cruelty of their shared past. For the first time, she allowed herself to lean into him completely, surrendering to the safety of his embrace.

Jungkook's gaze, normally so challenging and distant, softened as he looked down at her.

—You're safe now —he murmured, his voice a quiet rumble that vibrated deep within her.

His words, simple yet profound, made her feel seen in a way she hadn't in years. The scars of old wounds -both hers and his- seemed to blur in the weak light, replaced by something fragile and hopeful.

She lifted her hand to his cheek, trailing her fingers over the soft skin, memorizing the way his skin felt beneath her touch. Jungkook leaned in, their breaths mingling as he whispered:

—I want to know every part of you, Y/n. Let me in —his words sent shivers racing down her spine.

The intensity in his eyes, the way he held her as if she were the only thing that mattered, made her feel both vulnerable and fiercely alive.

For a long moment, they simply existed in that space -the silence and the soft rustle of fabric the only sounds between them. Then, as if on an unspoken cue, their lips met. It was slow and exploratory at first -a delicate communion of souls, each kiss deepening into a conversation of its own. With every touch, every caress, Jungkook seemed to draw strength from her, feeding off the energy of her trust. In return, Y/n found herself surrendering to the warmth of his presence, the passion in his whispered affirmations mingling with the tenderness of his embrace.

Their kiss grew more fervent, a merging of two wounded hearts finding solace in one another. In that moment, every lingering fear and every whispered secret of their pasts melted away, replaced by the undeniable promise that together they might just forge a new beginning.

His heart pounded with anticipation as he reached out to touch her, his fingers lightly grazing her soft skin. The tips of his fingers moving up under her shirt, tracing the curve of her waist and stopping right below her ribcage. He stopped when he heard her gasp, and looked up to check whether that was something she wanted or, on the contrary, that gasp let out how disgusted she was by the situation, but her eyes were dark, desire for being wanted so genuinely was clouding her mind.

Y/n's breath hitched as Jungkook's hand found her breast, his thumb tracing circles around her nipple. She let out a soft moan as he continued to play with her, his touch both gentle and electrifying. He could feel the energy surging between them, a connection that was both physical and spiritual.

Jungkook leaned in to whisper in her ear.

—Do you want me, Y/n?

She nodded, her eyes wide with desire.

—Yes. I want you.

With that, he leaned in to claim her lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth as his hands continued to roam her body. He could feel her heart racing beneath his touch, her body responding to his every move.

Her skin was soft, melting under his touch like he was meant to trace every inch.

With that same delicacy, Jungkook discarded all of her clothes, kneeling in front of her on the bed to find himself salivating at the sight in front of him. Why did he feel like he was the one being tempted, and not the other way around?

As he pulled his shirt up by the collar, Y/n's hands found their way to Jungkook's pants, her fingers quickly undoing the buttons to set him free. Neither of them could explain what caused that switch, but they didn't care to find out either. They just wanted each other.

She wrapped her hand around his length, stroking him slowly as he continued to kiss her, groaning against her lips when he dived down her body enough to meet her wetness with his fingers.

Jungkook broke away from the kiss, his eyes dark with desire.

—Are you sure you aren't the demon? —he teased, making her chuckle—. I want to feel you, Y/n. I want to be inside you. I just... fuck, I just wanted to lose myself in you.

She nodded, pulling him with her down the bed again while wrapped in another kiss, spreading her legs to welcome him in. He positioned himself at her entrance, his length poised to enter her. With a deep breath, he pushed in, feeling her tight walls grip him like a vice. Y/n let out a gasp as he filled her, her body adjusting to his size. And those few seconds he remained still, neither of them were able to keep themselves from touching. It felt like nothing was ever enough.

He started to move, his hips thrusting in and out slow at first. He wanted to savor every inch of her, every bit of her she was willing to share.

—This feels like one of the biggest sins ever —he moaned.

—I don't know what it is, but it feels so good —she gasped when the movement of his thrusts took some speed.

She moaned beneath him, her nails digging into his back as she held on for dear life. Their bodies collided together, and it felt like it made them weaker but so strong at the same time.

Jungkook could feel his own release building, but he wanted to hear something, he needed to hear her voice pronouncing that word.

—Say it, Y/n. Say my name —he demanded—. Call me Jungkook, angel.

Somehow, hearing his name for the first time, hearing him asking her to moan his name with such a husky voice, sent her closer to the edge.

—Jungkook —she moaned, her voice barely audible.

He continued to thrust into her, his movements becoming more frantic as he neared his climax. —Say it again —he growled, sinking his head on the curve of her neck—. Let me hear you scream who's making you feel this good —he asked, rolling his hips to hit her from a different angle.

—Jungkook! —she cried out, her body trembling beneath him as she reached her own release. Hearing his name on her lips sent Jungkook over the edge. He moved his head up, forehead resting against hers, just to make sure both of their gazes would be locked when they reached their release together.

She tried to call out his name again, but it came up as gibberish when her voice cracked after the first two letters. He didn't let her finish either. Jungkook linked their lips together before she could, drinking up her orgasm at the same time he fed her his.

While resting like that, between her legs, Jungkook could still feel the new wave of energy coming from her that was invading his system, yet all he could care about was the way her hands kept holding onto him on his sides.

Eventually, he moved, careful not to hurt her or disturb her, laying next to her on the bed.

The room was bathed in a soft, muted glow as silence fell between them. Y/n lay against a mound of rumpled sheets, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. Beside her, Jungkook remained motionless for a long moment, his eyes half-closed as if still processing the aftershock of their union.

In that quiet aftermath, an electric current of energy seemed to pulse through the air -a powerful exchange that left both of them trembling. Jungkook felt it most keenly: a surge that coursed from Y/n into him, as if every heartbeat, every whispered secret, and every scar of pain had merged into a single, overwhelming force. It was as though her very soul had kindled a spark within him, fueling a deep, protective warmth that radiated through his entire being.

Slowly, Jungkook turned his head to gaze at her. His eyes, usually so guarded and mischievous, now held a profound vulnerability. He reached out with a trembling hand, gently caressing Y/n's cheek as if to imprint the memory of her on him. His touch, light and reverent, confirmed the powerful connection they had just shared, a connection that went far beyond physical pleasure.

—You're okay? —he whispered, his voice low and raw, almost awed.

—I'm great —she admitted, out of breath.

Y/n's eyes met his, and in that shared look, a silent understanding passed between them. The lingering warmth of their passion was interlaced with something deeper, a promise of healing, of transformation, and the possibility of becoming more than the sum of their broken pieces.

For a moment, the only sound was the soft rustle of sheets and the distant hum of the city outside. In that fragile, suspended silence, they knew that nothing would ever be the same again. Their souls had touched, their energies intertwined in a way that was both raw and beautiful.

—You have a beautiful name —Y/n murmured, voice soft yet steady.

Jungkook froze when he heard that affirmation, eyes widening while meeting hers, heart racing when he saw her gentle smile.

—I'm glad. Because I want to hear you say it time and time again —he teased, pulling her closer.

In that quiet, intimate space, every unspoken word resonated with truth. They lay together -bound not only by the mysterious necklace but by an undeniable force that promised to reshape their worlds.

Taglist: @vsr4197 , @aznstoner , @curse-of-art

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