#what if i said i have more of this that's still a wip

[tsunodaradio]

afterglow ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

he isn���t fighting to destroy. he’s fighting to give.

ꔮ starring: underground fighter!isack x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.5k. ꔮ includes: romance, hurt/comfort. alternate universe: non-f1; descriptions of a fight, blood, injuries. isack is a loverboy, reader is a softie, established relationship e.g. childhood best friends -> lovers, google translated french. title is from taylor swift's song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: listen. listen. i know i said i would stick to the WIPs i currently have, but i've been unable to function with this idea on my mind. i fully blame @binisainz. this is a short one for now; a bit of a pulse check, i guess, to see if people like this concept/couple/verse? let me know! 🥊 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The crowd is already howling when Isack ducks through the curtains.

It smells like metal and spit back here. Concrete floor slick with old sweat, the low throb of bass rattling his teeth.

All he can think about is you. How you kissed his cheek this morning, barely awake, murmuring something about the cold creeping through the windows. How you curled back into the blanket like a cat, trusting him to go out and do what he always does.

He told you he had errands. That was technically true.

Now, the ring glares under hot lights. A blood-stained mat. Chain-link fence catching every glare like it’s daring someone to look away. The other guy is already inside—tattoos down his arms, jumping on the spot like he’s itching for pain. Isack doesn’t care. Not about the guy. Not about the noise.

He cares about the little shop off Rue de la Liberté, where he saw the secondhand necklace with the gold locket you’d probably never buy for yourself. He cares about the look you’d give him if he managed to hand it to you without a scratch on his face.

He shrugs off his jacket. Rolls his wrists. Breathes in once, steady. His coach, Christian, says something, but it all comes out muffled. His focus has tunneled. There is only the sound of your voice in his memory, bright and impossible: Promise me you won’t get hurt.

Isack apologizes in his head before stepping into the ring.

The cage door shuts with a clang that sounds like punctuation. The other guy smirks. Isack doesn’t flinch.

You’re not here. He would never make you watch, never want you to be in the audience for any of his matches. This is his world. This den of debauchery, this last resort for the desperate. 

But you’re everywhere else. In every breath Isack pulls in through his nose, trying to stay calm. In the way he keeps his stance low, remembering how you once massaged his shoulder after a bad hit. In the fury that doesn’t quite come, because he isn’t fighting to destroy.

He’s fighting to give.

The bell rings.

Fists fly. 

Somewhere in the blur of muscle and motion, he thinks of your laugh. He thinks of the way you once patched his knuckles with ointment and bandages shaped like stars. He thinks of your birthday, only four days away, and how maybe he can afford the locket. Maybe even a cake.

He takes a punch. Spits blood. Laughs.

For the first time in a long while, he has something worth bleeding for.

Isack fights like he always does. Scrappy, sharp, more heart than polish. He’s not as slick as Ollie or as ruthless as Kimi, but he’s reliable in a way people like to bet on. His jabs are fast, his footwork clean, and when he takes a hit, he doesn’t crumble. He recalibrates. Keeps going.

Tonight, he weathers two solid punches to the ribs. Another jab hooks into his jaw and sends stars skittering behind his eyes. Nonetheless, Isack comes back swinging. Left, right, then a knee when his opponent drops his guard. The other guy staggers. The crowd screams.

Isack finishes it clean. A final punch, heavy and sure. The ref pulls him back. It’s over.

His chest heaves. His mouth tastes like rust. But he’s still standing.

Backstage, Christian is already waiting.

“Nice work,” the manager says, all slick grin and fake praise. He hands Isack a rolled-up wad of euros. Lighter than usual.

Isack counts quick, frowns. “This isn’t the full cut,” he grumbles. 

Christian shrugs, too casual. “You got hit too much. Should’ve made it cleaner. Odds dipped in the third round.”

“That’s not—”

“You want the cash or not?” Christian leans in close, voice cold. “Because I can find someone else who wants it more.”

Isack’s jaw tightens. For a second, he sees himself saying no. Walking away. Then he thinks of you, the locket, your birthday.

He pockets the money.

The fluorescent lights make his bruises look worse than they are. He’ll ice the ribs when he gets home. The cut on his jaw isn’t deep. Nothing you’ll see unless he smiles too wide.

Isack walks home instead of taking the bus. It’s a ditch effort to have a bit more money to spend on you. He does mental math the entire way, computing how much he’ll need to get you everything he wants you to have. 

The apartment is peaceful when he lets himself in.

He toes off his shoes gently, careful not to make noise. The hallway is warm, dimly lit by the flicker of your favorite candle on the kitchen counter. It smells like vanilla and something soft beneath it—home, he thinks. It smells like home.

You’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, legs tucked underneath you. There’s a book open in your lap, but you’re not reading. The moment he steps in, you’re already looking up.

“Salut,” you say, voice soft but not accusing. “You’re late.”

Isack manages a smile. “Des petites choses à faire,” he murmurs. Little things to do.

You narrow your eyes. For a second, he thinks he’s caught. 

Instead, you shift, patting the cushion beside you. He crosses the room slowly, sitting beside you with practiced ease. Not too stiff, not too slow. He’s done this before—hidden bruises, concealed aches. You press your cheek to his shoulder, humming contentedly.

“I was thinking,” you say lightly, “for my birthday, maybe we go somewhere. Just us. Nothing big. Maybe that little town you always talk about with the old cinema and the broken carousel.”

Isack chuckles and immediately regrets it.

A sharp pain blooms across his ribs. He tries to play it off, but he tenses just slightly. Just enough.

You pull back instantly. “What was that?” you ask, eyes scanning his face. “Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Isack.”

You’re already pushing back your blanket, rising to your feet. He doesn’t stop you when you disappear into the bathroom and return with the first aid kit. There’s a gentle fury in the way you set it down. A kind of heartbreak.

“Shirt off,” you say.

He hesitates. “It’s not that bad.”

“Shirt. Off.”

He sighs, peeling the fabric over his head. The bruise is already forming across his ribs—angry, purple, edged in red. Your eyes spark as you kneel beside him.

“Mon pauvre,” you whisper, dabbing antiseptic across the scrape on his side. He flinches slightly, but doesn’t complain.

“You always come back like this,” you go on. “And you always say you’re fine.”

He watches you work, your touch careful, your brow furrowed in concentration. The only person who’s ever looked at him like he was breakable. You sound weary, and for a moment, it sparks something like concern in him. 

Would this be the night? Would this be the evening you decide enough is enough; you can’t be with someone as battered and bruised and addicted to the thrill as Isack? 

“I just wanted to get you something nice,” he says quietly, trying not to give too much of his plans away. 

You pause.

“Mon amour,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to his. “I don’t need anything you have to bleed for.”

He says nothing. Just takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Too late, mon ange,” he says, voice rough. “You’re already everything I’d fight for.”

It had started years and years ago, in the courtyard with the cracked pavement and a broken swing.

You were nine, maybe ten. The older kids had cornered you behind the bike racks, calling you names that stuck like burrs. Isack heard them before he saw you. Your voice was tight and trying not to tremble. He didn’t say anything. 

He just ran at the tallest one, fists flying with all the messy fury of a child who couldn’t stand to see you cry.

He came home with a split lip and a sprained wrist. His mother yelled. Yours baked him cookies. You wouldn’t stop looking at him like he’d hung the moon. He never forgot that.

The fights got cleaner over the years. Less wild, more measured. He trained in secret at first, using borrowed gloves and YouTube videos on his cracked phone. He said it was for self-defense. Everyone knew better. He did it for you.

And now, he still fights.

Not for playground pride, but for rent. For groceries. For birthdays and futures you both pretend to not talk about yet.

He fights so you won’t have to.

But tonight, the bathroom door is cracked open. You’re brushing your teeth in silence; he sees the way your shoulders shake, just barely. The little sniff you try to hide behind a mouthful of foam.

He leans in the doorway, watching for a moment. You blink rapidly at your reflection, fighting tears, trying to smile like it’s nothing. It breaks him.

He steps forward without a word, wraps his arms around you from behind. His chest presses warm against your back. You freeze for a second, toothbrush paused in midair.

“Chérie,” he murmurs against your temple. “Tu pleures.” 

Darling, you’re crying. 

You shake your head.

He hums, unconvinced. “Even your shoulders look sad.”

You let out a wet, reluctant laugh, and he feels your spine soften against his chest. “Want to tell me?” he prompts.

You spit out the toothpaste, rinse, and lean both palms on the sink. “It just… got a bit heavy today,” you say, watching Isack through the mirror. “Everything. You. Money. I don’t know.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, swaying the two of you gently. “I know. But we’ll be alright, mon ange. You and me, always.”

Your eyes meet his in the mirror. Red-rimmed but warm. He presses a kiss behind your ear. “No one gets to hurt you, not even life. Compris?” he hums. 

You nod, wiping your cheek. “Compris.”

He hugs you tighter.

In the mirror, you both look a little ridiculous. Tired and young and too soft for this world. But you also look like something solid. Something that doesn’t break.

The sheets are cool against your skin as the two of you slide into bed. You shift to make space, and Isack follows, slower, careful with the bruises he hasn’t admitted to. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlamp outside your window. There’s something about this hour that strips everything down. Even him.

Here, he isn’t the fighter people bet on. He’s not the boy who threw punches for pride or the man who bleeds to make rent.

He’s just your Isack. 

He curls behind you, one arm draping over your waist, his nose pressed into the crook of your neck. You can feel the tension still tucked in his shoulders, the thoughts still churning behind his silence.

You reach back, threading your fingers through his. “You’re thinking about taking another fight.”

He hesitates. Breathes in deep. “Maybe. Just—”

“No.”

You turn to face him fully, eyes shining even in the dark. “I mean it, amour. I don’t want anything for my birthday if it means watching you come home like this.”

He tries to protest, but you cut him off with a hand on his chest.

“You’re enough. Just you. In one piece.”

The silence that follows is thick. He stares at the ceiling like it might give him another way forward. But then he looks at you and sees the worry still lingering around your mouth, the exhaustion clinging to your frame. He thinks of all the times you’ve cried in the bathroom, thinks of the first aid kit that has to get restocked every couple of months. 

He sighs, presses a kiss to your forehead, decides to give you this. 

“D’accord,” he whispers. Alright. “No fight. Not for your birthday.”

You smile, triumphant and relieved all at once, and reward him with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another. And another. His breath catches when you kiss the tender spot along his jaw, just above the bruise.

He chuckles under his breath. “You always win,” he grumbles, trying and failing to sound upset about it. 

“Only when it matters,” you say before going in to press your lips against his. 

He pulls you close, tucks you into him like a secret, and lets his guard fall entirely. He falls asleep to you softening all of his edges. Chaste kisses, breathless giggles, gentle touches. Isack’s last thought before slipping out of consciousness is that he could live a thousand lifetimes and probably still not deserve you. 

He dreams that night.

You’re laughing in the sun, barefoot in some place he can’t name. Your arms are outstretched, your hair whipped by the wind. You call his name like it’s always meant to belong to you.

He chases after you, light-footed, weightless. The sky is a soft blue. The kind that exists only in dreams. His heart thumps, thumps, thumps in his chest the way only you can make it beat, adrenaline and fighting be damned. 

The dream shifts. 

It bleeds from the sunlight to the darkness, from the sunny outside to your shared apartment. You’re crying. Not loudly, not messily—soundless tears, falling as you stand in a crumbling kitchen with a bill in one hand and nothing in the fridge. He calls for you. You don’t hear him.

He opens the leather wallet you got him for his seventeenth birthday. It’s empty. His hands are bruised, bloodied. His knuckles won’t stop bleeding.

He cannot help you. He cannot reach you. He doesn’t deserve—

Isack wakes with a start.

The bedroom is still dark, but it feels smaller, suffocating. His heart beats in the cage of his ribs like it wants to escape. Beside him, you’re curled against his chest, breathing steady, your hand resting gently at his sternum.

He blinks up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

You don’t stir when he carefully slips out of bed. You don’t feel the draft when he shrugs on a hoodie, tugs jeans over legs that still ache. You don’t hear the pen scratch against paper as he writes, just three words:

Running errands, amour.

He places the note on the nightstand. Stares at it longer than he needs to. Then he’s gone.

The hallway is colder than he remembers. The elevator groans.

Outside, dawn bleeds into the horizon. A light wind stings his face as he pulls out his phone. Fingers hover, hesitate, then dial.

It rings once. Twice. Then:

“Christian.” 

Isack swallows hard. “Give me one more match.”

Silence.

Then, a laugh, low and knowing. “Just one?” 

“Just one. That’s it.”

“Same rules. Same cut. You in or not?”

Isack looks back up at the apartment window.

You’re up there, dreaming still. Safe—for now. Isack thinks of the locket, of cake, of the town you want to visit and the food in the refrigerator. 

He thinks of you. He’s always thinking of you. 

“I’m in,” Isack breathes.

The line goes dead. ⛐

[suzukiblu]

Not sure if you are still taking wip Wednesday requests but yj gets packed up and pupped please! It is so heartbreaking and I am hoping more folks say this one too so we can get to the part where Kon gets the comfort and acceptance he needs!!

Kon doesn’t know how he feels about how excited Suzie’d looked, when he’d said the thing about not having any extra blankets and then the “sure”. It kinda–hurts, how it feels. Hurts, but like . . . specifically the achy kind of it, like he gets after a workout or whatever if he doesn’t really use his TTK for it. Like the way Guardian says “builds muscle”, or whatever. 

He doesn’t know what he even means when he thinks of it like that. Just . . . that’s how he thinks of it, is all. 

Or like . . . that’s how he feels about it, maybe.

[heylittleriotact]

💚 WIP WEDNESDAY (because I actually have a WIP for you!) 💚

Here’s a chunk of Chapter 19 of i heard people are saying to get in here.

Tagging: @emmg @aldisobey @razildor @preciouslittlebhaalbae because i am a nosy nelly

💚💀💚💀💚💀💚💀💚💀💚

Rook had been helping him set up a service in the main chapel when Vorgoth materialized seemingly out of nowhere, while she was setting out the RESERVED chair covers on the first two rows for the family.

"Rook."

She flinched and whipped around at the sound of the enigmatic manager's stoic baritone, nearly dropping the stack of green velvet fabric draped over her forearm. "Fuck!"

Emmrich glanced up from arranging the urn spray around the base of the handsome brass urn containing the cremated remains of Mr. Herbert Knox.

If Vorgoth had taken issue with Rook's language, they made no indication of it, their face - solemn and bearing same sort of ageless wisdom as hewn granite - remained as unreadable and emotionless as ever.

"Sorry–" Rook said, shoulders slackening. "I didn't hear you come in."

"The maintenance staff has done well to ensure that the hinges of the chapel doors are appropriately lubricated: they shall be commended for their diligence."

"Errr... uh... good?" Rook offered, smiling weakly.

"Is your duty pressing?" Vorgoth asked, though it wasn't really asking - they had a knack for re-arranging your priorities as they saw fit. "It falls to me that I must discuss a matter of great importance with you."

Emmrich might as well have been invisible for all the notice Vorgoth had spared him - as far as they were concerned, they and Rook were the only ones in the room. He frowned and went back to primping the blooms and leaves around the base of the urn that was set out on a set of nesting cherry wood tables at the front of the chapel, keeping an ear open: what important matter?

"Uh... yeah, sure." Rook sounded just as caught off guard by this as Emmrich was. Hopefully it was nothing unpleasant... another chargeback, or Maker forbid a family complaint, but he very much doubted it: Rook was so detail oriented in her work, and had an undeniable aptitude for knowing how to meet the bereaved on their level in terms of communication and body language.

"Follow me." Their head turned with a smoothness that was decidedly un-human, and their dark and undeniably unsettling black eyes met Emmrich's. "Take care, Volkarin."

"And you, Vorgoth."

"Pray for me," Rook mouthed to Emmrich after Vorgoth turned and started silently retreating up the aisle, and then she followed them.

She wasn't gone long - a bit more than ten minutes had passed before she slipped back through the chapel doors, heaving a huge sigh as she ensured they were closed behind her.

"Is everything all right, darling?" Emmrich felt his stomach twist unpleasantly at the grim expression on Rook's face. He set down the photo frame he was wiping down with a dust cloth and met her halfway down the aisle.

"They put me on probation," she said sullenly, eyes turned downwards as if she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "I guess a family I helped with an obituary complained because it ran in the Times with a pretty big mistake that I didn't catch. It's not my fucking fault they gave me a printed copy of a typed obituary to re-type - if they'd sent me the actual Word document…”

"Probation?" Emmrich repeated in disbelief: how could such action be justifiable when the employee in question was held in high esteem by colleagues and management alike?

"Yup. Gotta straighten up and fly right, I guess..."

She still couldn't look at him, her shoulders hunched with shame and embarrassment, all of the wind stolen from her typically confident, self-assured sails.

His heart ached at the sight of her in such a state, and then ached further when it occurred to him that, of course - yes - they had dinner plans tonight to celebrate Rook passing her road test and getting her license. This certainly put a damper on the occasion...

"Rook..." He drew her into a hug in the middle of the serene space and stroked her soft black hair as he held her close in an attempt to comfort her.

Oh dear, the poor thing... he could feel her trembling against him.

"Sweetheart..." He pulled back enough to get a look at her, fully expecting tearful eyes and wet cheeks only to find himself gazing into Rook’s beaming face. “Wha—?”

“I love fucking with you.” She grinned. “Flora is being let go and they want to move me permanently to Pemberly Crossing!”

Brat. You are a brat, Rook Ingellvar, playing games with an old man’s heart-rate like that, he wanted to say.

[davrinsleftpectoral]

A Word With Friends/Wip Wednesday

Thank you @jenn2d2 for the word of the week, and @hedwigoprah for making a tag game that makes me really stretch my brain muscles. Not gonna lie, this one hurt lol.

This week's word is Perspicacious

Definition:

Quick in noticing, understanding, or judging things accurately or of acute mental vision or discernment.

I took the easy way out this week. I won’t do it every week (probably). Also put it in this WIP of my Chuck E. Cheese AU. So enjoy a snippet of Welcome to Nug E Cheese. This is still part of the first chapter. If you’d like to read the beginning, you can find it here

Some people like to torture Lucanis with angst and feelings. I like to torture him with bad coffee and the horrors of a minimum wage job.

==

“Sorry, don’t mind me.  I’m just gonna get old Joe going,” he explained.

“Good idea. I need some coffee after that meeting,’ Neve agreed.

Turvi approached old Joe. The machine was ancient. 15? 20? Years old. No one was really sure. They suspected it had been left behind by the original construction crew when then store was built.  He took a deep breath and began The Routine.

“Good morning Old Joe,” he began.

Lucanis looked up from his papers and didn’t say anything, simply raised one eyebrow.

Neve smirked at him, “Trust the process. Old Joe likes Rook the best.”

Turvi then turned on the machine. Turned off the machine. Unplugged it, counted to 15, and plugged it back in. He filled the water reservoir, put in a new filter, and grabbed the budget sized can of store brand ground coffee. When Lucanis spotted the giant can, Turvi thought he heard a small sound of distress. Once the coffee was in, he closed the the lid and wrapped a big rubber band around it to keep it shut. 

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Lucanis finally chimed in. “What is the rubber band for?”

Turvi grinned. “It’s like a seat belt, you gotta strap in, it’s for everyone’s safety.” Next he hit the start button, and after that he banged on the top 3 times. “You see Neve, the reason that Harding’s coffee isn’t as good, is that she only hits Joe twice because she feels bad. He needs 3 to really get going.”

Old joe wheezed and started to gurgle and bubble. “When you hear the wheeze, you know it’s going to be a good pot.” He turned around, hands on his hips with satisfaction, grinning at Neve. Lucanis didn’t say anything for a moment. The man’s eyebrows were furrowed deeply though.

Lucanis handed his completed paperwork over to Neve. She flipped through the pages, skimming over his writing. “Well, this looks good. I’ll go see if we have any spare polos in storage, but I’ll have to order you more. We weren’t expecting to get anyone new today,” Neve said by way of apology. 

“If you can’t find one, he can wear mine,” Turvi offered. “I can just wear the Gus suit for the day, instead of switching in and out.”

Lucanis’ eyes widened, but he stayed silent. Neve must have clocked the face he made, because she chuckled. “Keep your clothes on Rook. He can wear his own shirt if we dont have one for him.” 

Old Joe started beeping. Turvi stepped to the side and dramatically bowed and swept his arm out towards Neve. “Ladies first.”

Neve rolled her eyes at him as she got up to grab a mug. She poured the steaming liquid and made a little hum of displeasure. “Seems this batch is a little thick. Oh well. Better luck next time Rook.”

“Thick?” Lucanis squeaked, visibly paling. “And you guys actually drink that?” He asked incredulously, as Neve took a sip. 

“Yes, very perspicacious of you,” Turvi replied. 

Neve chuckled hand on hip, “Well look who’s putting that word of the day calendar in the break room to good use,” Neve said with a laugh. 

“I try,” he confirmed with an answering smirk. 

Turning to Lucanis she shrugged, “It tastes fine, and it does the job. We work in a Nug E Cheese. We can’t afford to be picky,” she shrugged. “Now let me go see about that shirt.”

==

The Routine is based on actual ancient food service machinery. Not the exact routine. But my sister works at an ice cream stand that has very very old machines. You do need to do weird stuff to make them work properly, and there is an actual rubber band holding parts together. Also there is way too much smirking going on. It’s still a wip okay?

Thank you @serensama for the tag. No pressure tagging @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @biowaredisasterbisexual @seaglassmelody @thedissonantverses @genjyoandgojyoandhakkai @woundedsoul12

[spideyjimin]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you @lo1k-diamonds for tagging me :)

Share those beautiful WIPs. If you don't have one, share the idea that you're working on or the art.

bon, it's not wednesday, but since i've been working on break my heart, i wanted to post a little teaser 👀 honestly get ready for this one, i'm getting wild 🤭 soo bare in mind that this might change since i'm working on it ✨

Break my heart 💔

Tonight, everything is different. You noticed it the second you stepped out of your room. You noticed it when his eyes devoured you back at your shared apartment. You noticed it when you did the same. Tonight, there’s an unexplained longing between you. You ignore where this comes from, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him to be your night companion.  

“Maybe I just needed a reason to stay.”

His eyes say more than words ever could. They are locked on yours like you’re the only thing that exists. He wants you. Desperately. He craves you with his entire soul. And he doesn’t mind as well if you’re his night companion this evening.

And from the way your pulse jumps, the way you look at him, he knows. He knows that you want this too. His hand shifts, his fingers grazing your waist. A light touch, but enough to send heat surging through you. Your breath catches. And he notices. Of course he does.

Then, that slow and wicked smirk of his forms. The one that screams trouble. The one he gives to his flirts. The one that usually makes you laugh because it was never meant for you. But now, it doesn’t make you laugh. It makes you weak. It makes you an easy prey for him.

“And what’s that reason?” he murmurs, leaning in, voice thick with heat and tease. “Is it the suit?” he pauses. “I noticed the way you looked at me at home.”

You slowly slide a finger along the lapel of his jacket. You’re trying to hide the fact that this man right here is making it difficult for you to remain composed. How can you resist him? Honestly, now you understand why there isn’t a single woman who can resist his charms. You used to make fun of them, but now, you understand them.

“Should I remind you of the way you looked at me?” your voice is also filled with heat and tease.

He leans in. Closer. His lips hover just beside your cheek, near your ear, but he doesn’t touch.

“I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you,” he confesses.

Your fingers move down, tracing now invisible circles on his chest while your bodies keep moving at the music’s rhythm.

“Such cheesy words,” you reply, a smirk arising on your face. “That’s what I deliver to the men I want in between my legs.”

Jungkook’s lips curl into a mischievous smile, his eyes darkening even more.

“Maybe that’s what I want.”

This makes you go still. Although it’s written all over his face that it’s what he wants, hearing it out loud makes it real. And if this is real, it means your friendship will never be the same anymore. It means that you’ve ruined the friendship. There won’t be any coming back after this night. You won’t even be able to blame it on the alcohol. You barely drank anything.

The music continues around you, bodies moving on every side, but your world has narrowed down to him. His breath. His stare. The way his hand flexes, like he’s seconds from pulling you in. Jungkook doesn’t hesitate a second when the next words leave his lips.

“Say the word,” he breathes. “And I’m yours tonight.”

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Protection

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Random 'Reader X' drabbles I wrote to try something new.

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Fem!Reader/Eris

Rating: Teen

Triggers: Assault

Chapters: Masterlist

Length: 773 words

[I was supposed to be writing my other WIPs...so of course I decided to write nearly 800 words of my favorite trope⎯"Who did this to you?"—that had nothing to do with any of those. Whoops. Anyway, this is unbetaed af. Sorry about that too.]

You remember the first time your husband surprised you. 

Your marriage to Eris Vanserra was a political one. Your father had desired power and privilege and High Lord Beron had required a broodmare for his son with a prestigious bloodline. Everyone had gotten what they wanted. 

Except for you and Eris of course. 

He was not a terrible husband, all things considered. You saw the way High Lord Beron treated his wife and counted yourself lucky that his heir had not grown to emulate such behavior. In fact, compared to his father, Eris was better than you could have ever hoped for. He never beat you. Never said so much as an unkind word to you. Rarely called upon you to warm his bed. He made all the appropriate gestures of fidelity and stilted affection required of him in public. Truthfully, outside of court functions and family gatherings he mostly ignored you. 

Perhaps some wives would have been crestfallen at the lack of warmth or trust from their husbands. But not you. You were more than happy to wile away your days in the library or the gardens, unaware and uncaring of your husband’s sly schemes and carefully laid political machinations. Frankly, the less you had to care about Autumn Court politics the better. At the very least, it kept you away from the brutality of Eris’s father. 

Unfortunately it wasn’t the High Lord you should have been watching out for. 

You weren’t sure who he was. A soldier perhaps. Or maybe a servant. Whoever he was, he had seemed quite delighted to get his hands on you, gripping your wrists until he left wine-dark bruises there. 

“Come on love,” he slurred, the sour scent of too much wine on his breath. “I just want a little kiss. Pretty thing like you, I know you want it…”

In the end, you only escape his drunken grasp when the slam of a door down the hall startles you both. It was all the distraction you needed to wrench your wrist free and escape out into the hall—nearly stumbling straight into a maid. 

It’s only later, in the safety of your rooms as you stare down at the fresh finger-shaped bruises on your arms, that you realize the precariousness of your situation. 

Would Eris cast you out for this? Demand a divorce? Send you back to your family in disgrace like your older sister? She, after all, had suffered far worse at the hands of a male not her husband, and had still been discarded like so much trash by both her husband and her father. Last you had heard, she’d ended up seeking shelter in the Night Court. 

Poor thing. 

You desperately hope that won’t be your fate. If the stories you’d heard were anything to go by, perhaps death was better than that place. 

But unfortunately for you, Eris had the eyes of a fox. 

“Who did it?”

His voice was soft. Steady. But you weren’t fooled. You had been his wife long enough now to recognize the fury simmering underneath the surface. It was a voice he used often with his father. 

You tug your traitorous sleeve down and swallow. “It’s nothing,” you insist, an easy lie on your tongue. “I fell.” 

Eris’s eyes narrowed. With careful fingers, he peeled back your sleeve until the garish marks were revealed once more. 

“‘Fell’ right into someone’s grasp did you?”

“It’s nothing,” you repeat softly, as if saying it will make it so. 

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He pulls the story out of you eventually. Say what you will about your husband, he is patient. 

You expect him to lash out then. Like his father. Like your sister’s husband. Screaming. Threats. Beatings. 

He does none of these things. 

In fact he does…nothing at all. He simply nods at you. Rubs a salve into your bruises. And then puts you to bed the way your mother did when you were a child. 

You find out his real response a week later. 

You see the other male again, struggling to hold a spear at his post at the gate. His hands are burned. The skin blistered and melted like candle wax. And even though the male never speaks to you. Never tells you who did this to him…you know. 

“…Why?” You ask Eris later, at breakfast. 

He looks you straight in the eye as he sips his tea slowly. 

“Because he touched what didn’t belong to him.” 

And it is in that moment that you see your husband for the first time. Eris Vanserra. 

The real Eris Vanserra. 

And you smile. 

Enjoy this fic? Check out my ACOTAR Fic Masterlists.

Thanks for reading! 💙

[trombonechurchill]

I can't decide if I'm more curious about 🪐 or 🔮 so both please?

🪐🪐🪐🔮🔮🔮

(Lowkey why I haven't picked a WIP to be my new "main" project is cause I like both of these way too much to choose hahah

🔮- Antique Shop AU, continues directly from here.

Tommy's hands are warm on his skin, a stark contrast to the cold sting of the wipes as he carefully runs them up Buck's shin. Over the curve of his knee. The crease of his inner thigh. The bite of the antiseptic the only thing keeping Buck grounded against the drag of Tommy's fingers against his leg hair. The way he can feel Tommy exhale on his skin. He's gentle, so so gentle considering the bulk of him coiled there on the floor, hands still soft as he picks out a few errant thorns. Carefully brushes down the edges of each bandage as he slowly patches and catalogs each scrape. Buck's barely breathing when Tommy finally finishes and looks up. Feels something catch and burn, a struck match as their eyes meet. Tommy doesn't break the silence as he finished, simply sets the rest of the medical tape carefully aside (and Buck should not find it so attractive that Tommy still puts it back in it's original place in the first-aid kit, the inside organized with military precision) before shifting onto his knees, leaning further into Buck's space. "Better?" Tommy asks, thumb skating the apple of Buck's cheek, voice barely above a whisper though his eyes are soft with concern. Buck can only nod, struck dumb having Tommy so close again. Thinks about their kiss outside the coffee shop. Tommy's lips warm and perfect against him. Watches the way Tommy's eyes track his tongue as it darts out to lick his lower lip. Tommy leans in, Buck can smell him, feel the heat of him, feels a faint chill as the temperature in the room suddenly drops- Wait, shit- "The gun's haunted!" Buck yelps right before their lips meet and Tommy's head jerks back, baffled.

🪐- Star Wars!AU under the cut cause this is getting long lol

"Alright, who gave Buck a blaster," Chim called over his shoulder, throwing himself down onto couch next to Buck. Buck looked up from where he was fiddling with the A-180 to give Chim a sour look. "Well you guys won't give me a lightsaber so-" "Because you'd loose a leg before we'd even finished handing it to you-" "So I figured I should have something," Buck continued, fingers skating over the railing that would theoretically hold the scope and other parts to configure the blaster into its proper rifle form. Maybe Eddie had some parts. "Buck we've seen you with a cutter, I think you're well off enough without adding blasters into the mix," Hen offered from where she'd tucked into the dining nook, not looking up from her datapad. "What, you guys don't trust me?" Buck asked, tilting the blaster in his hands and frowning as Chim surreptitiously pointed the barrel down at the floor. "The Force is practically screaming in horror at the sight of your holding it alone," Chim said gravely. "No it is not-" "Sorry, but it is, it's a Jedi thing, you wouldn't know-" "Stop lying about the Force, Chim that's not how it works-" Still at the table, Hen sighed.

Make Me Write!

[dorkja]

sneak peek: words left unsaid (still, my heart is yours) by FallingFlowers

the results from that poll are in, friends! here’s a sneak peek from my upcoming jd wip! currently ~12k words in, and only about a third-ish completed, but we’ll see where it goes from here (hopefully done in the next few weeks). Once it’s done and edited I’ll start uploading it to ao3 :)

TW: slight mention of kdj’s suicidal mentality at the age of 15. very, very slight, not detailed at all.

I hope you’re excited! :)

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Dokja stared at the boy that sat beside him on the roof of the school. His protagonist’s eyes were stuck to that portable gaming device of his, as per usual. He only ever looked up when he needed to pick up his lunch box for a bite of food, and then he would chew while he grinded out another level. For the past few weeks, Dokja had sat beside him—he was pretty good at whatever game that was. It never took him very long to kill all of the enemies and grab all the items he needed.

“What’s your name?” Dokja asked hesitantly with a lump in his throat. The boy had just set down his console to pick up his chopsticks again. Had he timed it right? He hadn’t wanted to break his focus, but he’d been wanting to know for a while now.

The boy looked up at him and narrowed his eyes. “Yoo Joonghyuk.” He looked back down at his console afterward. It was blunt and uncaring, but it was an answer; that was more than Dokja had been given in years.

His lips spread out into a smile. “My name is Kim Dokja.”

Joonghyuk looked up at him again and nodded. He said nothing, but his dark eyes lingered on him with a clear curiosity. His gaze downturned again to look back at his screen, but it was slower, less abrupt. There was something written in the way his shoulders lost their previous stiffness, his lips twitched at one side, and his fingers skidded across the buttons.

Okay. It’s nice to meet you, Kim Dokja.

The words filled themselves in without needing any further contemplation. Yoo Joonghyuk was a story, like anything else in the world. He was a book to be opened, his plot driven with pages of dialogue and conflict—but more importantly, a billion words left unsaid. It was more interesting that way, wasn’t it? There was more to uncover before that final heart-wrenching twist that stole the reader’s heart.

Dokja was, first and foremost, a reader. He smiled again and sidled closer to Joonghyuk on the cool stone of the roof. Then, he pulled out his phone and brought his knees to his chest, satisfied with the information he’d learned as he opened up his web novel app. Joonghyuk didn’t need to speak to him all the time, if he didn’t want to. Dokja was more than happy to read in between the lines.

Especially if it made him forget his initial desire to jump during their first day on that roof.

Weeks later, they sat huddled over the small screen of Joonghyuk’s gaming console, each holding their own tiny controller. They’d been working at this level for days, and the final checkpoint was within sight before the boss battle. Dokja smashed the button to jump while pressing down the right arrow, holding his breath—then glared as his character was smashed by an enemy.

“Are you fucking kidding me? That’s the fifth time!” Joonghyuk yelled. They hadn’t even made it past the fourth level in all the lunch periods they’d spent together. “You have to hold the jump button for longer, idiot. How many times do I have to tell you?!”

When he turned toward Dokja and scowled, it was different from usual. There was an emotion there; it didn’t matter what it was: disappointment, annoyance, or frustration. It was a change, a development. The angry words that had spilled from Joonghyuk’s mouth counted toward the progression of his story, but the uncontrollable laughter that fell from Dokja’s lips counted, too. And that turned it into something more. It wasn’t just his story, anymore; it was theirs.

When Joonghyuk sat back down, sipping at his bottle of water and handing over the plastic-wrapped jumeokbap he always offered, Dokja took it without a word of thanks. He didn’t need one. Joonghyuk knew.

“Let’s do it again…” he sighed. But the corner of his mouth rose ever so slightly—something akin to a smile. Dokja continued to chuckle. The redness that spread across Joonghyuk’s face from his frustration was funny, but that hint of a smile alongside it was going to be unforgettable.

What would his laugh sound like? He hadn’t laughed once even in all of the weeks they’d begun speaking with each other. Would it be a low, deep rumble, or more high-pitched? Would tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he struggled to hold in his excitement? Dokja wanted to know, wanted to see.

But maybe that was asking for too much. This was still only their exposition, after all.

[electric-plants]

listen sometimes i just think that when cyno heard alhaitham was going to be acting grand sage he immediately started begging and pleading to be able to go and personally rub it in azar’s face

[penn-dragon]

Hey, on the topic of my own fic writing, I’ve got a question for my followers/fic readers.

I have a tendency to never post any of my writing, because my various unmedicated (I’m working on it) neurodivergences and mental illnesses make it very hard for me to ever finish pieces, and I feel really bad about starting a fic that someone could be really into and then potentially never finishing it when my brain suddenly decides I’m not allowed to write any more of it. So a long time ago I made it a rule for myself that I never post anything until it’s 100% finished, even if I have like multiple chapter that are perfectly ready to be published. Which ultimately leads to me never posting anything and sitting on a hoard of writing that only myself and select friends ever see.

So my question is, it more upsetting to read part of a story that might never get finished? Or to know that there’s writing out there that you don’t get to read just because it’s not finished?

[pastelaeqy]

wip

dbh brainworms have been lasting too long

[venomvalley]

ALRIGHT YALL WIN. PILLOW PRINCESS PART 2 IN THE WORKS

[averlym]

"bad decisions, that's alright; look, i'm still alive"

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: DESERT CREATURES by Kay Chronister.

Up next! I'm heading back into my Driscoll revision project next month, WHICH MEANS: I can start reading through my Driscoll-vibes TBR shelf again!! I have been promised weird desert body horror (with a side of cannibalism? yikes?), and I'm excited to see how this goes.

[humanjarvis]

tantrum

synopsis: what makes sylus snap?

tags: fluff, sylus is tired and grumpy bc he misses you, he obliterates his phone with his evol, sunshine reader probably, cartoonish luke and kieran appearance (sorry boys) word count: 842

a/n: after that magnum opus line i really wanted to see sylus throw a tantrum and i kept mulling over what would actually make him do that because i can’t see him doing anything much worse than this. i think he’d find Actual grown man tantrums lame. anyway i don’t like this and will maybe delete? nvm but i had the writing urge so i sacrificed this concept from my wips. 

When you arrived at the base after your three-week business trip, your long-awaited homecoming was…tame, to say the least. You’d been expecting a teasing “How nice of you to join us, sweetie,” or a cocky yet vulnerable “I was beginning to think you’d run away.” But once you’d stepped through the front door, Sylus had barely said a word. A soft “Welcome home” and a kiss on the forehead, and before you knew it, you were cradled in his arms as he carried you to his office.

He’d sat you both down in his leather armchair, making you face him in a straddle. His tired eyes had searched yours, and a moment later, he’d buried his face into your neck, inhaling deeply. 

“I missed you,” you’d murmured into his ear, pressing a kiss to his hair. With a quiet groan, he’d tightened his grip on your hips and nuzzled into you even deeper.

That’d been 15 minutes ago. Basking in the comfortable silence, you’d traded kisses all the while—yours on his hair, his on your neck. 

But suddenly, a low buzzing noise cuts your reunion short: his phone is ringing.

When he makes no effort to answer, still breathing heavily in your embrace, you twist in his arms and accept the call before he can protest. 

A familiar voice crackles over the line. “Boss?” Kieran asks. “Next meeting’s in 10. The one about those stolen shipments from Linkon—we’ve been waiting to hear back for months. You coming?”

Sylus doesn’t answer.

“…Boss?” Kieran repeats. “Boss, you there? You oka—”

Red and black mist shreds the phone into pieces. 

“Sylus!” you yelp, jumping in his lap. “What’d you do that for? He’ll probably be worried. And how will I text you now?”

You pout up at him, and as you study his chronically calm expression, you see something unusual: Sylus’s eye twitches. Just for a millisecond, only moving a millimeter, but you catch it.

“I’ll have a new one delivered tomorrow. As for the meeting, I’ll stay here,” he says lightly, a tight, closed-lip smile on his face.

“But Kieran said it was important,” you reply in confusion. “Why don’t you want to go? Are you feeling sick?” you frown, starting to lift off of him.

“No,” comes his too-quick reply. “It’s just…the twins can go in my stead,” he decides simply, moving to lean into you again.

But before he can move an inch, a rhythmic sequence of knocks sounds at the door.

“Come in!” you chirp happily, too excited to see the faces you’d missed the last few weeks to notice Sylus stiffening under you.

Immediately, the door swings open, revealing two masked figures. 

“Hi Luke, hi Kieran!” you beam, and they wave back at you eagerly.

“Long time no see,” Kieran begins. “Boss, did you lose signal or something? I tried calling you about the meeting, but I think it disconnected. Anyway, we’re about to head down and—”

“Cancel it,” a frustrated growl rings out.

You all freeze.

Somehow, you’d been too wrapped up in your excitement to feel Sylus's body shaking—no, quaking—beneath you.

“W-what? But they’re already here!” Luke sputters.

“Cancel. It.” Sylus grits out the words as if holding back a snarl, and the power in his voice leaves no room for argument. 

“O…kay,” the boys say in unison, and as they back away slowly, you shoot them a sympathetic look.

Red tendrils wrench the door shut behind them, and when you’re alone once more, it’s like the man under you deflates.

His head returns to the crevice of your neck with a soft but unceremonious thud, and his deep exhales and burning hot skin tell you he’s trying to calm himself down. 

Uncertain and a little amazed—you’d never seen him lose his composure—you give his cheek a gentle poke. “Sylus,” you whisper. Nothing. 

“Psst. Sylus,” you try again, and there’s some force behind your poke this time. With bated breath, you watch as your finger sinks into the space under his cheekbone, sighing in relief when the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 

Lifting his head up to make eye contact, you smile at him softly. “Hi.”

“…Hi,” he rumbles, and as his crimson gaze softens, the remaining annoyance dissolves from his face.

“Are you upset?” you prod gently. 

A brazen scoff precedes the dry chuckles that fall from his lips. “And what makes you say that, kitten?”

A squint and a slight tilt of your head is all it takes. 

“I haven’t had you to myself in a while,” he begins cautiously. “Three weeks is…a long time. The longest we’ve been apart. And then the moment I have you in my arms, well…” he trails off, gesturing to the shards of phone on the table. “I just want to enjoy you right now. Undisturbed.”

“Oh, I see,” you coo, cupping his face in your hands. “Is this your way of saying you missed me too?” you quirk a brow.

“Yes,” he responds through squished cheeks, honest and unabashed. “Now, won’t you stay with me like this for a little longer?”

[causticsunshine]

.