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ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral · 2 days

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I was going to post a different au idea tonight, but this idea caught me in a death-grip and would not let me go, so enjoy!

Note: You can find the translations for the old English at the end!

In this au, Merlin dies at Camlann instead of Arthur, and his magic was diffused into the king and kingdom he so loved upon his death, making everyone in Camelot immortal. After a few centuries of thriving though, Merlin's magic starts to fade, and everyone falls into an almost comatose state. It keeps them all alive and protected the kingdom from intruders, but it could not keep them awake. However, the people of Camelot did not worry about this. Both the druids and the dragon had proclaimed that Merlin would return to the world of the living again one day. So, they were content to sleep peacefully and await the day of their friend's return. Slowly, the earth rose up to swallow Camelot, and the sleeping kingdom was buried underneath the earth.

Fast forward to modern day, and Merlin's been reincarnated without any of his memories or his magic. He winds up as an archeologist, and eventually is sent out to a promising dig site on the border between England and Wales. There, his team unearths a window into an old fortress. Their sonar equipment has revealed a full castle underneath their feet, and they have everything prepped for a preliminary excavation! They've already found coins and a few blades on the site, dating back to the 6th century!

Now, stories of the "immortal kingdom of Camelot" and its undying and legendary king Arthur were commonplace, and Merlin quite enjoyed those stories as a child. However, historians doubted if Camelot was ever a real kingdom at all, and no one past the age of six believed in an immortal kingdom! Merlin, deep down, was hoping that the dig site was indeed the historical kingdom Camelot itself, as much of the kingdom's history had been lost and buried under ridiculous myths about magic and dragons.

However, the issue is that the window that they discovered is pretty small. Merlin, as the skinniest out of all of them, would probably be the only one who could fit through it. Excitedly, Merlin puts on his safety harness and hard hat and descends through the window and into the castle.

Merlin explores for a bit, constantly telling the team on the surface all about the amazingly preserved artifacts in the castle. There's tapestries, suits of armor, furniture, even clothing still in wardrobes all in perfect condition! The entire team is besides themselves with excitement! They've just made the most important discovery of their careers!

Merlin spends a few more days exploring the castle by himself. Eventually, he comes to a rather impressive and ornately decorated door and decides to find out what's behind it. It must be something pretty important to warrant such an impressive door! Perhaps the throne room?

As he opens the door though, he lets out a loud gasp, shocked by two things in the room. First, the large round table in the middle of the room. He knew that he was near the supposed site of the lost kingdom of Camelot, but this confirmed it! All of the legends spoke about king Arthur's round table, and here it was before him, confirming the legends!

However, Merlin's elation was dashed by the second thing he noticed: bodies. There were bodies occupying the seats around the table, all of them slumped over or slouching in their seats with their eyes closed, but they were not skeletal remains that should have been there, seeing as how no one had set foot in those room for hundreds of years. No, these people looked like they had only been there for a day, with no signs of decay on them.

As Merlin's fear began to rise, he tried to reason with himself. Maybe this kingdom had surprisingly advanced embalming techniques and had unusual burial rituals? What other explanation could there possibly be?

As Merlin reported the bodies to his colleagues on the surface, they warned him to be careful is something didn't feel right, which it certainly didn't. Something about these bodies creeped Merlin out in a way that no other human remains had ever done. However, Merlin's unease lessened somewhat as he described the bodies to his colleagues, his excitement at such a well-preserved find started eclipsing his fear.

There were in total five male bodies and one female body, with four of the male bodies being clad in chainmail, surcoats, trousers, and long bright red capes with an insignia of a golden dragon sown into it. The other male body was similarly clad in chainmail and a cape, but wore a golden crown on his head. Lastly, the lone female body, who was sitting to the left of the crowned male body, was a dark-skinned woman wearing an ornate and richly decorated dress along with a small silver crown on her head.

Merlin's heart stuttered in his chest as he came to the natural conclusion of these observations: he had just found the perfectly-preserved bodies of a king, queen, and four knights. Forget making his career, Merlin was going to be put in the history books for this discovery! Quickly, he called his colleagues (who had finally found a way to safely widen the entrance at the window) to follow the line of his harness and join him in the room he had just found. They needed to see this!

Finally turning away from the bodies, Merlin let his gaze wander around the room. He takes note of the impressively high ceilings for the time period, the repetition of the dragon crest on decorations around the room, and the designs carved into the wood of the round table. However, one of the most intriguing elements of the room, was the lone empty chair sitting next to the king.

The fact that there was only one empty chair was strange enough, but there were a few even stranger elements to the chair. The chair was directly to the right of the king, presumably reserved for the king's right hand, his chief advisor. Why would such an important figure be missing here? Another puzzling feature of the chair was the scrap of red cloth that was tied around one of the arms of the chair.

Stepping closer to examine the little piece of cloth, he could see at first glance that the cloth was old, battered, and made with cheap material, unlike the richer cloth that made up the knights' and kings' capes. What was this random piece of cloth doing tied around the arm of this chair, which presumedly belonged to a powerful figure in the kingdom?

A sudden piercing shriek caused Merlin to jump into the air. He looked up and across the table, relieved to see that it was just four of his colleagues who had just entered the room. They must've been freaked out by the well-preserved bodies too! Merlin certainly couldn't blame them for such a reaction.

Merlin chuckled a bit and spoke to his frightened coworkers. "Well, what did I tell you? This is going to shock the world! We've just made the discovery of a lifetime!"

However, his colleagues were only getting paler by the second, not even looking at him, instead looking... past him? Merlin frowned a bit and turned to look over his left shoulder, at the body of the king, which was where his coworkers were staring. What could possibly...

His eyes were open. His eyes were definitely not open before.

As soon as his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing, Merlin let out a panicked shriek and flung himself backwards, away from the king who he swore was dead just a second ago what the fuck was happening?!

Unfortunately, Merlin desperate attempt to get away from the maybe-undead king sent him sprawling to the ground, having tripped over the empty chair, and his shriek had jolted his colleagues into action. The four of them ran forwards and grabbed ahold of Merlin, dragging him back towards the entrance to the room while never taking their eyes off of the maybe-undead king.

As they made their way back to the entrance though, something truly horrifying happened. The king moved. He blinked and moved his neck to track their movements.

Oh god, that thing was awake and aware that they were here! They needed to get out of there!

Together, the group turned and ran as quickly as they could back towards the entrance. Horrifyingly, as soon as they were out of sight of the king, they could hear the screeching sound of a chair sliding against the stone floor. Each one of them could feel their hearts pounding with fear as they all realized at once: the king, whatever he was, was going to chase after them.

They nearly all have heart attacks when they hear a voice roaring after them, "Gripan híe! Híe syndon fandian to niman Myrddin!"

After a tense few minutes of running with the terrifying echo of boots chasing after them ringing in their ears, they finally reached the hallway connecting to their window entrance. They could see the light outside! They were almost free!

Fear gripped all of their chests, however, when a group of what should have been corpses blocked their path, cutting them off from the sight of the daylight. For a second, Merlin thought about making a break for it and attempts to run through them, but then the probably-undead knights unsheathed their swords (which were still somehow sharp and pristine after 1500 years, this was getting ridiculous!)

The group quickly turned around, hoping to run back and perhaps find another path towards their freedom, only to have their hopes dashed by the sight of the undead king storming towards them with his sword (why was it golden?) unsheathed and rage in his eyes.

Looking between them, the closest thing that they had to a weapon were a couple hard hats. They were doomed, and they could see their death marching towards them.

Getting closer, the king furiously shouted at them again with unfamiliar words. "Hū darrst þū āsceacan hine from mē! Iċ hæbbe bīdode ofer þūsend geara for þisne tīman, and þū ātēowedest tō nīefre hine from mē stelan! Þū scealt āgildan for þis!"

The group of five archeologists are shaking in their boots at this point, fearing for their lives. Each of them had reached the only logical conclusion about their ludicrous and possibly deadly situation: they must have woken the king and his knights from their eternal rest, and they were now angry at the archeologists for disturbing their final resting place.

As the knights close in on them and grab ahold of each of them, they're all prepared for the worst. As the king barks commands at the knights, all of the archeologists are prepared to be meet with some horrible death.

"Nimðað þa ungewelwieras to ðære cyrcan cwellan, wē magon dēmian mid him æfter. Gwaine, nim Myrddin to his geardas and hafa Gaius locian ofer hine. And be mildheort, he sceal hæbbe geferod eft fram Avalon and mæg swilc bēon in pinunge fram his wundum! Gecyða eft to mē mid Gaius's gemetungum þonne hē geendod hæfð."

At the king's commands, the knights nodded, and while Merlin was led down the hallway to the right, the others were led back down the dark hallway from which they had fled. Merlin tried to call out to his colleagues and to shove his way out of the knight's grip, but the knight responded by picking Merlin up and slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, eliminating Merlin's ability to fight back.

Merlin tried to calm his mind and to avoid thoughts of what horrible fate would be in store for him at his destination. His treacherous mind spun up terrible theories as to why he had been separated from his group, each one more horrifying than the last.

Finally, the knight seemed to have arrived at his destination. As the knight pushed the door open, Merlin tried to brace himself for what horrible instruments of torture were surely inside.

However, there were no torture instruments at all. There were only sheets of paper strewn about, some herb bundles here and there, lots of little vials and pots scattered around, and an old man slowly walking towards them.

The old man blinked in what looked like surprise, followed by tears seeming to brim in his eyes. What the hell was going on?! The man spoke softly, "Is hit sōþlīce hē? Āh, mīn cniht, þū eart eft tō ūs āgēan cuman! Hēr, Hlāford Gwaine, sete hine dūn on þæt cot and hæbbe hine his scyrte āweg þæt ic mæg gesēon gif his wund is ēac þǣr."

The knight deposited Merlin gently on a nearby small bed and gave him some sort of smirk before speaking to him in a surprisingly gentle, almost teasing, voice, "Þu gehyrde þone wer, Myrddin! Of mid þinum scyrte nu. Ic wat þu maegst beon sceamful be þan, ac þises sio tid is swiðe aðele."

When Merlin could do nothing but stare at the knight, more bewildered than he's ever been in his life, the knight seemed to take offense to his inaction and began tugging at the bottom of Merlin's shirt, trying to pull it over his head. After a brief struggle, the knight emerged victorious, holding Merlin's shirt in his hands and grinning like a loon. Why on earth had the knight wanted his shirt of all things? What was he about to be subjected to?!

After a tense few minutes, the old man pottered over to where Merlin was sitting, bringing a small bag along with him. The man then began looking over Merlin's torso, paying particular attention to a certain to a spot underneath Merlin's ribs, prodding it repeatedly.

Merlin was quite uncomfortable being examined like this, but with an undead knight in the room still armed with a sword, there wasn't much Merlin could do to without risking getting stabbed. Well, at least the old man wasn't hurting him, so he supposed that he could look on the bright side and be grateful for that.

Eventually, the old man seemed satisfied with his examination of Merlin and addressed the knight again. "Hwæt, he þinceð tō bēon on sīðfæt hāl! Þū mæġst secgan Ārthūre þæt ic blīðe eom tō secgenne þæt ic ne mihte findan nān tācn his ǣrran lȳtlunge."

The knight nodded at the old man, looking pleased at whatever he had just been told. Then, the old man turned to him and handed him the small bag. "Min cniht, ic eom swiðe blīð tō gesēon þē eft. Þū eart swīðe þearle gewilnod! Hēr, wē hæfdon sume þīnra reafa gehealdene for þē! Ic trowe þæt þū þē beteran gefēlan wille þonne þū sum þing gelīclicre gescēawian."

Merlin gently took the bag from the old man and tentatively opened it and pulled out its contents. Inside the bag were a scratchy red tunic, a pair of old trousers, a brown jacket, a thin leather belt, and a scrap of blue cloth. Merlin looked up at the knight and the old man, unsure of what to make of these clothes.

The knight just rolled his eyes, snatched the tunic out of Merlin's hands, and started pulling the tunic over Merlin's head. Did they... did they want Merlin to put on the clothes? That seemed like the correct answer, as they looked happy when Merlin complied and put on the tunic, and they pushed Merlin towards a small room in the back of the chambers with the clothing still in his hands.

Alright, Merlin thought to himself, he would change clothes in this odd little broom closet if that kept him from being stabbed.

(And he did not acknowledge the part of his mind that swore that he knew this room, that this room was his. That was ridiculous, he had never seen this place before in his life!)

After putting on the trousers, belt, and jacket, all Merlin was left with was the scrap of blue cloth. What the hell was he supposed to do with this? Should he keep it in his pocket or something?

However, it seemed like his hands moved before his mind had a chance to catch up, as his hands, seemingly of their own accord, wrapped the blue cloth around his neck a couple time before typing it in the front. Huh, that was strange. Merlin normally didn't wear scarves, why did he know that this piece of cloth was a scarf?

It was... strange. However, there were more pressing matters at hand, namely not getting killed by undead medieval knights. After taking a deep, calming breath, Merlin opened the door and stepped back out into the main room, where the old man and the knight were waiting for him.

They both smiled at the sight of him, and the knight quickly slung an arm over Merlin's shoulders, said what was presumably a goodbye to the old man, and started leading Merlin back out they way they came.

At this point, Merlin started struggling again. If he could just escape from this knight, he could get back to the surface and gather a rescue team to save the others! But the knight's grip of him was tight, and after a certain amount of Merlin's struggling, the knight just sighed and threw Merlin over his shoulder again. Damn it!

Merlin tried to reference places that he had already seen as the knight dragged him deeper into the castle. An escape route would be essential if he was going to make it out of here alive. However, Merlin's hope was quickly running dry as he was carried further and further away from the only exit to this godforsaken castle and further away from any area that he had explored so far.

What's worse was that, as they went, Merlin could see more and more undead (maybe undead? what else could they be?) people throughout the castle. And it wasn't just knights either: there were guards, servants, and even what looked like noblemen and noblewomen running around the castle. What made all of this truly eerie for Merlin though, is that all of them would stop and stare as soon as they saw him. Even though he was dressed like one of them, they could still somehow tell that he was an outsider, not one of their number.

After what felt like an eternity, the knight finally stopped in front of a large door and put Merlin down. Merlin's dread skyrocketed as the guards opened the doors and the knight dragged him inside.

The room itself was richly decorated, with a dining table, a study, and a plush canopy bed. If looked like a room fit for... a king.

Oh no.

As if summoned by Merlin's thoughts, the king rounded a corner and appeared before them, thankfully looking less angry than before, but still sending Merlin's fear into overdrive. Merlin jumped at the sound of doors slamming shut behind him, leaving him trapped with the king.

Merlin was sure that he was shaking terribly, but he managed force his joint to work and took a step backwards as the king began to approach him. Merlin continued to back away from the king until his back met the cold, unyielding wood of the door. Slowly, the king stepped towards Merlin, his eyes never leaving Merlin's form.

In what was entirely too short of a time period in Merlin's opinion, the king had closed the distance between them and was within an arm's reach of Merlin. Merlin's eyes desperately darted around for a weapon, anything he could possibly use the defend himself with, but there was nothing that he could reach.

As the king took one last step closer to Merlin, Merlin closed his eyes and braced himself for pain, even death. However, to his shock, no pain came. Instead, the felt the king's warm hands on his shoulders, and without warning, he was roughly pulled into a hug. What the actual fuck?!

Through the king's ragged breathing, he could hear more of those unfamiliar words, this time spoken tenderly.

"Oh Myrddin, hwǣr eart þū bēon?"

TRANSLATIONS:

Gripan híe! Híe syndon fandian to niman Myrddin! = Catch them! They're trying to take Merlin!

Hū darrst þū āsceacan hine from mē! Iċ hæbbe bīdode ofer þūsend geara for þisne tīman, and þū ātēowedest tō nīefre hine from mē stelan! Þū scealt āgildan for þis! = How dare you try to take him from me! I have waited over a thousand years for this moment, and you've attempted to steal him from me! You must pay for this!

Nimðað þa ungewelwieras to ðære cyrcan cwellan, wē magon dēmian mid him æfter. Gwaine, nim Myrddin to his geardas and hafa Gaius locian ofer hine. And be mildheort, he sceal hæbbe geferod eft fram Avalon and mæg swilc bēon in pinunge fram his wundum! Gecyða eft to mē mid Gaius's gemetungum þonne hē geendod hæfð. = Take the intruders to the dungeon cells, we can deal with them later. Gwaine, take Merlin to his chambers and have Gaius look over him. And be gentle, he must have just come back from Avalon and could still be in pain from his wounds! Report back to me with Gaius's findings when he's done.

Is hit sōþlīce hē? Āh, mīn cniht, þū eart eft tō ūs āgēan cuman! Hēr, Hlāford Gwaine, sete hine dūn on þæt cot and hæbbe hine his scyrte āweg þæt ic mæg gesēon gif his wund is ēac þǣr. = Is it really him? Oh, my boy, you've returned to us! Here, Sir Gwaine, set him down on the cot and have him take his shirt off so I can see if his wound is still there.

Þu gehyrde þone wer, Myrddin! Of mid þinum scyrte nu. Ic wat þu maegst beon sceamful be þan, ac þises sio tid is swiðe aðele. = You heard the man, Merlin! Off with your shirt now. I know you can be shy about it, but this time it's pretty important.

Hwæt, he þinceð tō bēon on sīðfæt hāl! Þū mæġst secgan Ārthūre þæt ic blīðe eom tō secgenne þæt ic ne mihte findan nān tācn his ǣrran lȳtlunge. = Well, he seems to be in perfect health! You can tell Arthur that I am pleased to report that I could find no sign of his previous injury.

Min cniht, ic eom swiðe blīð tō gesēon þē eft. Þū eart swīðe þearle gewilnod! Hēr, wē hæfdon sume þīnra reafa gehealdene for þē! Ic trowe þæt þū þē beteran gefēlan wille þonne þū sum þing gelīclicre gescēawian. = My boy, I am so deeply glad to see you again. You have been dearly missed! Here, we've saved some of your clothes for you! I'm sure that you'll feel better wearing something familiar again.

Oh Myrddin, hwǣr eart þū bēon = Oh Merlin, where have you been?

Well, I hope you guys liked this au! What I originally planned to be a short little prompt turned into this beast of a post! I probably won't be able to post on Friday (since I'm planning on adding a new chapter to my fic on ao3 on Friday or Saturday), so hopefully this will tide you all over until the weekend!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my ramblings! :D

(And please let me know if you'd like a continuation of this au!)

#bbc merlin #merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin bbc #merlin au #protective arthur #merthur #merlin prompts

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hoseoksluna · 2 days

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BERRIES | jjk ft. jhs

pairing: ex-boyfriend!jungkook x oc (feat. hobi)

genre: angst, tiny fluff, itty bitty smut

word count: 6.0k

summary: your ex-boyfriend shouldn't have this much influence over you when you have a new man, should he?

playlist: berries / pinterest board: berries

warnings: depression, daddy issues, use of titles, oc has dirty thoughts about hobi (do we blame her? no, we do not), slowburn, implied sex, dd/lg, soft argument

note: this took every last bit of my strength, so i had to split it up. i'm sorry if this is a piece of absolute shit, but as you all know work this week squeezed everything out of me and i'm so exhausted that i'm not even sure if this is worth posting. i struggled a lot with this fic, rewrote it multiple times, and i'm so very happy that it's finished. i hope you all enjoy the start of a new series, this time a slowburn that will have more parts, more depth and everything. and surprise! it features hobi, my beautiful husband. it was my first time writing about him and he's missing so terribly from my soul that it was one of the reasons why i struggled so much. i wish it weren't like this for my first time with him, but oh well. i hope you, guys, enjoy. please, let me know what you think. <3

The satiny material of your cream-colored dress must be the one and the same that these sculptures had worn centuries ago. You can almost imagine the softness kissing your fingerprint instead of the cool stone as you graze your touch against each and every immortalized angel of loveliness. You’re stirred by a sense of poignancy—that you’re alive and they’re not and yet you believe that as you stare at them, feel what they’ve been through the more you study their eternal expressions, they stare right back with their eternally tender eyes, see right through you, through your heart, know its contents. You wish you were in their place instead; you’re sure they would’ve handled your cursed life better than you can.

Or you wish you were as stony as them.

But you’re an opulent fountain of emotions that are anything but gentle.

This thought distracts your attention from the way your feet ache in the boots you chose to wear to impress your date. Thigh high, with black knee socks underneath to keep you warm from the cruel breath of autumn. Hoseok is carrying your trenchcoat as you’re adventuring on your own in this art museum and that’s the only sliver of kindness he’s shown you this very morning.

The only compliment you’ve received from him was a nonverbal one. An up and down look with a smirk creeping in when he picked you up at your apartment. No hug, no caress. You felt so small—and awkward a little bit, comparison rushing in. Not in the form of a wave of the sea, but in the form of a snake, its thick body tightening around your throat. An ouroboros, which made you regret going out on a date so soon.

It hasn’t even been a month since you’ve become a single girl again, learning how to walk in this new, harsh reality, your legs wobbly, weak and too, too heavy. And the lack of comfortable physical contact made you see your ex-boyfriend before your own eyes, the memory of how he acted at the beginning of your first date. The way he picked you up into his arms due to his excitement of being with you and carried you inside his car. He put on your seatbelt for you. Drove carefully. Held your hand as he led you to the restaurant he picked for you. Even during the walk after while you talked about the stars and you couldn’t help but tell him that his eyes were filled with them.

Hoseok did neither of those things. He had asked you where you wanted to go and you’ve wanted to visit the museum for quite a while, so you suggested it. He had agreed, no sort of enthusiasm evident in his voice muffled by the phone call. And you’ve barely exchanged a few words during the half an hour of your time spent here, let alone led an entire conversation. You should’ve heeded the warning when it was right in front of you.

Hoseok is certainly not of the artistic kind.

Looks quite bored as you turn your head to look at him, your coat dangling from his arm so terribly devastatingly. And when you focus your gaze to your right, where a dark wine-tinged room, with golden frames of paintings, awaits you and where you’ve longed to go the moment you stepped a foot inside this grand building, a distaste pools on your tongue, your former aesthetic elation ruined.

You’re surprised he didn’t stand you up.

You don’t even want to take pictures. As a matter of fact, you want to go home. But you can’t. Can’t ravage your only possibility and means of forgetting the person you still love. Can’t really encourage Hoseok to leave your life, not when you’re the type of person that doesn’t find love upon every corner you turn to.

This is your only chance. And he’s the only man you’ll conceivably have in your life for quite some time.

You walk up to him and take your coat from his arm. His eyes deepen on you, in fact they haven’t strayed from you during the entire half an hour—and that bothers you. If your ex-boyfriend were here, he’d share the beauty with you. Make you laugh so hard that the sound would echo around the vast room. Perhaps give life to the sculptures and they would laugh along, too.

Your heart hangs heavy in your chest, sinks ever so slowly and you can’t bear it. You need to leave. Take this date elsewhere, hope for betterment to grace you—to have but a fragment of pity for you.

“You hungry?” you ask, softly, willing your voice to be smooth and not divulge the brassy storm of your emotions to him. Hoseok doesn’t know anything about you. Doesn’t know that you yearn for another person to be standing in his place. “Did you have breakfast?”

Hoseok needed the date to be in the early hours. Said he had a meeting in the afternoon. Would be working on a project with his colleagues until the late hours. You didn’t mind, not really, in fact it animated you—brought briskness into the sadness of your headspace, knowing it was rainy and cloudy outside. Perfect weather for the influence of the arts. That is, until you realized that it was a grave mistake to take a businessman to a museum; that you dragged a heathen to a church.

Hoseok shifts his weight on each foot, his shoulders swaying with the movement, and he licks his lip, bringing your attention to them. Small, but full—you wonder what they would feel like against yours. Wonder if he’d be gentle with you or violent. If he’d stroke your hair or grip it; fondle the ribbon you’re wearing in a half up do or untie it, entirely. Use it for another means like your ex-boyfriend invariably did.

Your distaste grows, but not for Hoseok. It grows like poison ivy for yourself and your tendency to compare him with someone he doesn’t deserve to be juxtaposed with.

Guilt blossoms in your sternum, the leaves of that poison ivy. Pretty to the eye, but deadly for the body. Just like you. You’re too baneful for such a pretty man like Hoseok. You’d do well to respect his boundaries and abstain from physical contact, prevent red rashes from marring his skin.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” Hoseok says, just as softly, rubbing the nape of his neck, the black cloth of his dress shirt taut over his arms—a pretty sight, one that could be hanging in the wine-tinged room for generations to gawk upon. “Truth be told, I was too nervous.”

A brief smile adorns his slender face and you melt, the poison ivy scratching you raw. Your heart picks up its rhythm, flattery clothing it in a protective layer and you pout, your hand itching to graze his forearm. But a hidden fight rises in you, an army of darkness ready with their bows, their arrows shooting thoughts into your brain about how little you’re worthy of such kindness and favor.

Though when Hoseok blushes upon seeing your tender expression, it gives you some sort of strength to stand tall against those demons. Despite the fact you don’t understand it, you don’t question it either and you cling to it, sensing its freedom speaking to you in a foreign language. A yearning forms in you, one you haven’t yet had the possibility of meeting. A yearning to learn its syntax and vocabulary. And when you give in to it, the poison ivy in you lessens.

This is good.

You reciprocate his smile and you coo. Find it the easiest thing in the world. And because you’re so grateful for what he’s unwittingly done for you, you decide to share your truth with him as well.

“Let’s go eat, then.” Your eyes crinkle and you’d bet light flickers in them, for your whole body does, you sense it. A warm light enlarges on its axis, taking a hold of the heaviness you felt. “There’s no need to be nervous. It’s what I told myself when I was getting ready. My stomach hurt and believe it or not when I told myself these words, it stopped.”

Hoseok chuckles, his arm slapping back to his side, but you notice that it trembles. You’re so touched by it that you become angry at yourself, self-hatred clashing with that warmth. You misinterpreted him so unfairly and what’s more, you wallowed in your brokenness and your heartbreak, when Hoseok had been nervous and timid the whole time, which now sheds light on his lack of closeness with you.

You’re despicable. And the awareness of it transforms into that snake tightening around your throat again. Only this time, you welcome it. Long for it to take your life. It’s the least you deserve.

But you’re not letting yourself loll in the bed of your horrendous emotions. No, you lift your hand and you caress his arm, the one that quakes. And amidst the sepulchral attention of the sculptures, you’re a witness to that trembling’s halt, to Hoseok’s visible tranquility, and you want to weep.

You know if you were to gaze at the eternal angels of beauty, you’d see stony tears appear on their ivory cheeks, too.

“I’m sorry,” Hoseok mumbles and you curl your brows in confusion, not knowing what he’s apologizing for. Hoseok opens his mouth again to speak, but he pauses, sloshing the words in his mouth. You feel so bad that a craving to better yourself overcomes your entire being. “I’m sorry for being such a buzzkill. If you wanna explore this place more, we can. I saw you looking at the room with the paintings.”

He tilts his head in the direction of the aforementioned room, but you care very little about it as of now. You’d much rather take this elsewhere and get to know him better, so you don’t make the mistake of distorting him again. You’re not very keen on forcing a heathen to pray, either, however you do appreciate his willingness and attentiveness. Carry those things into your jarred heart, fold them inside its chambers, the edge pieces to the puzzle of his personality.

“Don’t worry,” you murmur, taking it one step further and hooking your arm around his. Hoseok sighs, his shyness slowly breaking apart as he clasps his hand over yours and if you could dissolve any more, now would be the perfect time for it. His hold is strong and steady—and it creates something stable within you, an orchard of fruit trees, pink and green, and bushes of berries, a safe place you want to rest in; lay down your brokenness and woes in. “You’re good. No need to apologize.”

His blush deepens at the reassurance and he smiles, softly, running his thumb over your knuckles. And the gratefulness you feel due to the fact he’s touching you, it is the rain that freshens up the apples and cherries hanging on the twigs of those trees, guiding it into full bloom. You focus on it—focus on the thick, cottony material of his dress shirt as you rub his forearm in response. You want to acknowledge yourself with the unspoken parts of him like these, remember them, allow them to heal you and crack the plaster over your heart.

And there you hear it. The crumble as Hoseok leans in and presses a chaste peck onto your cheek, lingering there for a second more, inhaling your sandalwood scent. And his smile widens as he looks down on you at such close proximity, erasing your touch-starvation once and for all. It’s your turn to blush now and you feel an inkling to shy away from his gaze, but you stifle it back. Curl your mouth in a smile—your heart thumping louder amidst the orchard now that it has more space to function in.

“No, I really want to apologize. It’s been too long since I’ve been on a date and you’re so stunning that I’ve forgotten my game, so I can’t help but to be nervous. I don’t know how to act around you,” he says, mutedly, punctuating his sentence with a breathy laugh, glimmering eyes flicking to the lining of your silky neckline just below your collarbones, tracing the miniature cherub hung up on your dainty necklace plated in gold, motionless against your dress. Your own heart grows wings and momentum in its place, fluttering in haste to move closer to him. He bores his gaze back into yours, letting it stay there. “Art isn’t really my thing, but you look like you belong here. Look like all those angels around.” He nods at your necklace. “And like that angel, too. Can I take a picture of you?”

You’re so taken aback that you don’t have time to respond. Pulling out his phone from the pocket of his dress pants, he withdraws from you and gently ushers you in the direction of the closest angel, your trenchcoat slung over his arm again, vibrating with life. He positions you how he likes—right in front of the immense sculpture, your head turned slightly to the side so the wisps of your white ribbon in your hair can be seen. His touch grounds you, tells your bloodstream, your organs that everything is okay, repeats it a little louder to your headspace—all before war could be declared with you.

Hoseok, the prince of peace.

The prince that crouches to the dirty floor so the vastness of the angel’s wings can fit in the shot. Yours, too. You think you’ve grown a pair of your own, alongside your heart, now that your shared honesty brought you closer.

You struggle to hold back your sob, to stop the corners of your mouth from rounding, your chin from quivering—all because the lightness that you sense wrapping over your heart is one you haven’t felt in a really long time. You feel taken care of, feel like you can depend on him, and while you can’t explain why you feel that way, you consider that such an immense blessing, regardless. So much that your eyes wet for the camera, but you don’t mind. Let that be captured in the memory—the mending that occurred. And let that be safe with him.

You smile and the flash goes off, which causes you to burst into giggles, your liquid softness forgotten, and run to him, your palm covering his phone camera so nobody sees his defiance. You look around to make sure no employee is in sight before you face him, cheeks warm, heart warm, wings warm, body warm. Hoseok quirks a brow, confused, gaping up at you from his position, and you take a deep breath to halt another inrush of laughter.

“You can’t take pictures with flash here. They’ll throw us out,” you whisper-shout, your giggles escaping your tightened mouth. His own forms into an ‘O’, fingers clicking on his screen, presumably turning off the automatic flash.

“I didn’t know,” he whisper-shouts back, mouth stretched in a lopsided grin. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid.” You shake your head, shoulders still shaking with the last of your giggles. He probably didn’t have a phone back then, which makes it even funnier. He inspects his settings again to make sure it’s all good before his hand finds your thigh and pushes you back. “Okay, I turned it off. Go back to the angel.”

It’s your whole body that flutters now, not just your heart, both pairs of wings unfurling, and when you retrace your steps, you still feel the heat of his touch—half on the fabric of your dress, half on your bare skin. And as you smile more naturally for the picture this time, greed kisses your core. A greed for more of his touch; on the same place as well as elsewhere.

A twinkle of where he could possibly touch you flashes before your eyes and it’s all your focal point consists of when you turn your head to your former position the way he wanted it and he praises you for it: “Good, good.”

Your muscles clench as you imagine his hand going underneath the fabric, exploring what’s hidden in there for him. The words of praise he would utter at the discovery of your private flesh. Your ears must be red. Such a twist of events you didn’t expect. A meek form of demureness creeps in, enveloping you in a feminine sensuality and you’ve missed feeling this way. Missed feeling pretty and alluring for yourself first, then for a man second. Missed being the center of your attention like this, of someone else’s as well.

You’ve always loved it. Perhaps due to the fact that you very seldom have it—so when it does come, it changes your life and you attach your being to it.

You didn’t anticipate going home with Hoseok, especially not on the first date. But because you’re being fed, you don’t really care about being proper. You want to go home with him and so you simply shall.

Can’t let the opportunity run away from you.

And so you arch your back a little bit more, look up at the angel and give her your silent thanks, your hair flowing around your form when you flick your gaze back to Hoseok to see him concentrated on the task, his smooth features gravely serious. Your stomach flips.

“Now from the back,” he instructs without lifting his eyes off of the screen of his phone. “Just like you were.”

A breath lodges in your throat, the double meaning burning the poison ivy down to ashes and you swallow it, let your stomach acid consume it until there’s nothing left of it, until all that your body carries is nothing but the lightness and the seductiveness that Hoseok gracefully gave you, the comfortable heft of the wings that grew because of him.

It’s those things that drive forth your following words with the world’s ease, unabashedly.

“You want it from the back?”

Hoseok’s mouth parts and the look he exchanges with you should chill your blood, but it doesn’t. If anything, it boils it. The heat that wafts off it pools in your core before ascending to your imaginary wings, leaving them dripping with sweat and the dew of titillation. Hoseok’s eyes narrow, shadowed by the furrow of his brows, encouraging it all the more.

There is it—the heady energy shift, permeated with the sweetest of berry juices, stemming from lust, from the orchard he planted in you. Strengthening your allure, steeling you from head to toe. You submit to it; kneel into it, notionally. Your elation raises from the dead—and you grin.

“Behave.”

A pulse in your private parts. The lengthening of your expression of delight. Your wings, your muscles clench and the same winged creatures soar to your heart from your stomach, squeezing the beating flesh. You swivel on your heels, the hem of your dress rippling, exposing more of your tender skin, the ribbon in your hair following suit.

Hoseok sucks in a breath. Your cheeks ache from the joy’s strain and it is utterly exhilarating to you.

“Yes, sir.”

Hoseok coos his approval and you can’t take it anymore. You let him take a few more pictures as you move around, dancing in your own way, running your fingers through your hair, trying to distract yourself from the throbbing between your legs, but to no avail. And when you sigh and face him head-on, Hoseok is already on his feet, walking towards you with a reappearing lopsided grin that forces the butterflies gnawing at your heart to go absolutely rampant.

You’re done for. You need to take him home. You’re not even curious about how the pictures came out—you can always look at them later.

Hoseok seems to know about your neediness because when he crosses the distance, he cups your chin. Makes you look up at him. And his smirk deepens while your heart increases in size, wings flitting at the special attention.

“Such a pretty girl,” he murmurs, caressing your skin with his thumb. Your eyes round and the heat you feel is sweltering underneath your clothes. All the more reason for him to take them off. “The pictures are great. Wanna see?”

Biting your lip, you shake your head, briefly. “What I want is to make you breakfast,” you say, mirroring his tone, hoping he gets the hint.

Hoseok waggles your chin, humming. “Oh, yeah?”

Fuck. If his scolding already didn’t make you submissive, then his response and his actions have. You wet your mouth, teeth instinctively sinking back in, and only nod. Hoseok opens your coat and covers your shoulders in its warmth, pressing the cotton twill fabric against your sternum.

“Thank you, sir.”

A fond sound pours out of him and the fact that he likes to be called by that title heightens the pulse between your legs. “Let’s go.”

He leads you towards the exit with a hand on the small of your back and you’re so happy to be touched at last that with a final look at the angels, you send out your silent love and goodbye to them, thank them one last time for the kindness you received because of them, one that you so ferociously sought after and longed for.

They seem to bow to you, happy to be of service, and you smile so profoundly that you feel as though nothing could stain your joy and mar it all over again. They wouldn’t allow that to happen—and a tendril of hope burst open within you like sunlight tearing through clouds, one that is suffused with the notion that Hoseok would stand in the way, side by side with those sculptures, too.

And he does when you swivel your head back and catch a glance of someone you know.

A piercing on the side of his brow, unchanged from the last time you saw him. Round eyes, murky. Ashen complexion that used to bloom with vibrant tints. Full, soft-toned mouth, ever so stuck in that pout, one you used to kiss until it bruised.

Your bloodstream doesn’t cease its flow. Not until you notice the person beside him.

A girl with an aura so cataclysmic that it forces you to stop dead in your tracks. An August night storm personified, obnoxiously sweet-smelling of the past summer that you spent with her companion. The hollow, funereal scent of a meadow doused in petrichor—she walks with it, her hands intertwined before her in a clasp.

You wished for him to be in Hoseok’s place so ardently that he appeared. And now that you contemplate him, the lack of distance between him and the girl, it makes you regret that you ever did.

Because, unknowingly, it drenched you in gasoline and his presence is a lighter, hers the hand that has flicked it to life and now serenely holds it against your skin, waiting until the flames, little by little, devour you whole.

And the job is finished when both of their heads whirl, meeting your livid stare.

And Jungkook, too, stops dead in his tracks.

“Do you know him?” Hoseok asks and you find it strange that you can hear him when all you can see is red.

And the red fades into the matching black shirt that Jungkook is wearing, into his bluntly pained mien; into the strands of his date’s short hair and her scrunched up brows as she regards you with a strong aversion that makes you scoff. And the same red weakens when Hoseok turns your attention to him by playing with the ends of your ribbon, grazing them before twirling them around his finger.

A breath of fresh air, he is.

You don’t know what to say. Don’t know whether to tell him the truth or come up with something that won’t devastate what you have currently going on with him. But if you lie to him, you’ll stumble into a dead end you’d much rather stay clear of. You’d see it before your eyes once you do take him home and it would ruin the newness he brought up with you, preventing it from taking root in you.

Devastation awaits you in either case. Both you and Hoseok.

Cursed, your life is. Doomed, absolutely fucking doomed.

What would the angels do in your place?

Seeking their wisdom behind you, it is not in them that you find your answer, but in the passing pair dressed in black, making their way over to the dark-wined room. He’s pretending he didn’t see you at all, walking away from you without saying a word, despite the fact you broke up on good terms.

You worshiped him in this very building almost on your knees and he dismissed you as if you meant nothing to him, caring for the feelings of his date, instead.

Peculiarly, the sentiments Hoseok installed in you, both of the passionate and the soft kind, turn that fire blue and it becomes the driving force that guides you to act without a single thought spared.

“Yeah, I do know him. Do you mind if I quickly say hi to him?”

The corner of Hoseok’s mouth curls and he caresses your hair down your back one last time. “Go, I’ll get the car ready.”

Such a confident, strong man, broken out of the confines of his former timidness. Not possessive, nor insecure—letting you do what you want. Respectful of your personal life that doesn’t include him just yet. And for that very reason it will—as soon as you’re done putting out that fire in you.

It’s not only you that has gone through a change upon this hour and it strikes your awe, enough for you to lean in and peck his cheek, just like he did to you.

Hoseok makes a sound of endearment, pivots on his feet to leave you to it, but you grab a hold of his hand. Have a need to say something to him.

His brows rise at the attention and you brush your hand across his knuckles, mimicking his previous actions, having learned them, intimately.

“Thank you, Hoseok. Really,” you say with a smile that could magnetically pull the sunlight out of its hiding place behind the clouds and bathe this bizarre room in light. You squeeze his hand.

A swirl of shyness flushes his face in rose pink and he shakes his head. “No need to thank me,” he assures, reciprocating the smile. “And call me Hobi. You can save Hoseok for later.”

Your jaw falls open and Hoseok chuckles, warmly, deepening the pulse between your legs until a wet spot adorns your panties beneath your dress, one that you look forward to showing him at the aforementioned time.

He pivots again and you watch his tall, lean figure leave. Back muscles clothed in black, straining against the fabric. He must’ve undergone his military service.

A beautiful man. You can’t wait to taste him. Taste that manliness.

Loosening a breath, you turn around to search for your ex-boyfriend. And much to your dismay, he’s appreciating the angel sculpture—the very one and only Hoseok took your pictures with. Fire licks at your every nerve ending, but then you notice that his date is nowhere in sight.

A perfect opportunity to do what you want to do.

Pulling out your phone out of your little purse, you look for his name in the history of your calls and tap on it, placing the device against your ear, your hoop earrings clashing against the screen. You watch him palm his pocket as the vibration disturbs his aesthetic pleasure and he casts a long glance at your name filling up his screen. Doesn’t comb his gaze through his surroundings. No, he seems to be transfixed by the twist of events and when he swipes his finger to accept the call, his stare begins to dig a hole into the dirty, marble floor.

Doesn’t say anything.

You scoff, fury grazing your fire. “You’re pretending not to know me? That’s low.” His pout rounds and the tip of his shoe traces the edges of the ruination he’s caused. Remains silent. “Who’s your little girlfriend? I thought you’d introduce me. Where is she, anyways?”

It’s him who scoffs now and he flicks his gaze towards the face of the angel. It’s like he’s staring right at you. “You shouldn’t be doing this, little one.”

The too familiar pet name brings agony to your heart and you would break had Hoseok not given you his strength, if the dependability of him waiting for you outside wasn’t real. And the allure and the lightness in you, perhaps the very love of the sculptures encompassing you—all of those things only vivify your solidity. You have no reason to break, you’re safe.

“Well, I think you should be a good Daddy and meet me right there in the red room,” you seethe, glad for the anger to be lingering in you, for the utterance of the title leaving you unscathed. You’re just giving him a taste of his own poison, nothing else.

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair and sighs, clenching his jaw. “Don’t call me that.”

You chuckle, enlivened by the provocation. “I can do whatever I want. Besides, you started it.”

He grits his teeth. “Not when you’re talking to me, you can’t.”

Your fire rises in overwhelming waves, your curt response ready on your tongue, but Jungkook hangs up, making you shut your mouth, instantly.

You hate him for that; hate him with the entirety of your being.

What has happened to your friendship? To the sweet, weeping Jungkook who broke up with you because he didn’t want to cause you any more pain with the state of his mental health, who has been dealing with depression for so long that he’s reached a point of no return, a lightless room with no windows, where all he saw was you, and he didn’t want you to be a victim of such unhealthy attachment. So he bid you goodbye, hugged you until you couldn’t breathe and let you go.

Three weeks ago.

You haven’t seen him or heard from him since until now. Until you’ve found someone else and moved on with your life. That’s just your luck.

And now the person you’re gazing at, it’s not the same one that wept against your chest. Yes, he might have been strict with you during intimate times, teased you with his fatherliness during the day even—but that invariably was imbued with the mellowness of love.

Try as you may while his words ring in your headspace, you cannot unearth any trace of that same mellowness in it. Only bitterness, coldness and a profound darkness.

Jungkook pockets his phone and, leaving both of his hands there, sunk deeply, he walks over to the wine-tinged room, his frown obscuring the place in gloom. Murky clouds, personified. A perfect match to the storm of his companion. Bile lodges inside your throat.

You follow after him, your feet aching terribly in your boots, but it serves as some kind of alleviation to the tautness of your emotions, of your confusion, disgust and offence. Makes you feel better—because once you see Jungkook ogling a certain painting of a woman beaming at him softly, dressed in flowers, blues and greens as the redness akin to your fire burns in her background, the agony tries to slither its way inside your heart, but fails.

You’re a locked orchard.

Jungkook senses your presence and he swivels, biting the inside of his cheek, pierced brow quirking. There’s a strain to his shoulders and his Adam’s apple bobbles as he takes in your appearance. The creaminess of your short, silky dress, the darker shade of the same color of your trenchcoat slung loosely over your shoulders, exposing your brown, leather, high-heeled boots, your matching purse clutched in both of your hands as you strut towards him. Calm, all of a sudden. It does nothing to you, nothing whatsoever—your heart momentarily attached to Hoseok.

“I thought you’d already left,” he murmurs, tipping up his chin. Begins to sway back and forth on the balls of his feet, the carmine hues of the room swathing him in a deeper shade of darkness. “Isn’t your boyfriend waiting for you?”

You don’t bother to correct him. It’s none of his business who Hobi is to you, not when he treated you like a stranger.

“We were about to leave, but then I saw your actions,” you say, quite monotonously, your calmness as disturbing as it is triumphant. You yourself even wonder at it. “What the fuck was that?”

A smirk. “Glad to know I still have some kind of effect on you.”

You scrunch up your brows, distaste once again pooling in your mouth. “Trust me, I would’ve done this with anyone I know. You’re not special.”

His smirk widens. “So, you’re not jealous?” He rubs the side of his jaw, staring at you, intently, and disgust comes over you like a splash of a wave, soaking you in cold sweat.

He did it for that very reason—to make you jealous. Walked right past you, just to get a rise out of you. As much as you loved him half an hour ago, that affection turns into dust within you, sprinkling the fruit trees and the berry brushes with its gray smithereens, poisoning them.

Ouroboros, all over again. Full circle. Anger covers your disgust.

A voice echoes within the room. Airy and light, as feminine as it is otherworldly, and you know, without a doubt, who it belongs to. It doesn’t suit her, not in the slightest.

“There you are,” your ex-boyfriend’s companion trails off, the clapping of her flat shoes halting. “Who are you?”

You only turn your head to the side, signaling to her that you’ve heard her question, because you fix your stare back at Jungkook as you answer it. “It’s not something you should trouble yourself with. Can you give us a minute?”

You don’t hear any movement, so she must be stubbornly staying where she is. All right, she can join the conversation for all you care.

When you turn your head back around, you catch stars oozing from Jungkook’s eyes, a conveyance of adornment painting his face in gentle colors that could never be associated with this room. There it is, the face you know, so resplendent of the one you last saw. And it grazes your anger, whispers to it that it was a mistake, a game of pretense, because you’re reverently acknowledged with his soul—you know who he is. While it may explain his fucked-up behavior, you don’t soften. Not at the hint of familiarity. Not even at the hushed hint of your deduction telling you that the reason why he unmasked himself was because you chose him and didn’t run away when his companion spoiled your short time together.

You don’t soften because you simply don’t want to.

You don’t want to give in to any means of getting close to him.

The chapter is finished. You shouldn’t have called him. You should’ve left with Hobi.

You don’t wish to keep him waiting long, nor do you wish to keep sprawling in your mistake. You pivot, ready to leave, but Jungkook captures your hand. Desirousness palpitates in his eyes as if he, too, needed to tell you something of urgency.

You’ll hear him out, but that’s the end of it.

“Can I see you later?” he asks, pupils growing in size until they absorb his chocolate irises, his grip over your hand tight and heated. A wind blows in your orchard, sweeping away all the darkened smithereens left by the bane, freshening you up.

You don’t really think that’s a good idea.

“I won’t have time for you later, I’ll be with Hoseok.”

To Hobi, you won’t lie, but the same can’t be applied to Jungkook.

His breath hitches in his throat, disappointment weighing him down, the thought of you being intimate with someone who is not him causing his posture to slouch even more.

But he surprises you with the words he says next.

“I’ll wait, then. Let me know when you’re alone.”

And you surprise yourself even more when you nod, turning on your heel and scurrying off to meet Hobi outside.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah.

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whumpsday · 2 days

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Kane & Jim AU: Slow Cooked

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, torture, burns, body horror / goreish, isolation, touch starvation, rescue, caretaking

just some whump that wouldn't leave my head. i'm on an AU kick. 2 pieces in a day!! woo!!! also posted a catharsis chapter earlier :D

It was day one-thousand one-hundred and thirty-three since they’d left Kane in the sun.

Unlike in his cell, it was easy to count the days out here. Impossible not to, unless he lost count amid the endless pain. He couldn’t see, hadn’t opened his eyes in years, but fire licked at his toes once more, slowly working its way up.

Kane did not scream. The last time he’d screamed, a hunter had wrapped a cord around his throat and threatened to leave it there forever if he made another sound, leaving his lungs perpetually empty. That was day 14.

He had air. As his already burnt-beyond-recognition body lit up once more under the unforgiving heat of the sun, Kane reminded himself he could breathe. It was the only thing he had left.

It hurt. It hurt, hurt, hurt, always. There was no end to it, not even at night, when his wholly maimed form was given far too little time to even start to heal. There was only agony at night and more agony in the day.

He missed his cell. He would do anything to go back to his cell, in the blessed dark.

The morning sun rose enough to reach his face, his entire body once again swallowed as he burned alive.

Please. Please make it stop. Please, somebody help me! I’ll do anything. I just need it to stop. Mercy.

Every day, the same wish, unanswered. Kane was left to his unbearable existence, forgotten.

Somebody touched him. It was the first time Kane had been touched in over three years.

It was a light touch, just the graze of what he thought to be a hand to his jawline. Not enough to make it hurt more than it already did. Whoever it was said something, but he couldn’t make it out. Melted flesh had filled his ears for quite some time.

Kane did not move. He didn’t think he was capable of moving, anymore. But he had to do something. Maybe if he did, they’d let him inside, just for a little. Just for a few days. He would do anything to be allowed inside for a few days, even if they tortured him.

Please, I need help, please help me! Make it stop!

A small, raspy whine escaped the back of his throat, muffled further by his sealed-shut lips. It was all he could manage.

The hand retreated.

If Kane was capable of crying, he would. If Kane’s tear ducts hadn’t melted away under the sun years ago, he’d never have stopped.

Please. Please. Somebody. Help me.

His heart cried out, yearning for the touch to return. Even if they never helped, even if they hurt him. He just needed to feel for one moment like he wasn’t alone.

He keened again, a quiet thing, though he tried. Wordless begging to not be left.

The hand returned to his cheek, and he quieted once more. If the agony never stopped, at least he had this. The ability to breathe, and one gentle touch.

Without warning, something pierced his chest, and his cursed consciousness was blissfully lost.

Kane did not wake outside.

His arms and legs were no longer spread into the corners of the board, ensuring every vulnerable inch of his front was exposed to the sun. The board no longer touched his back, in fact. Instead, he laid on something soft. The sun did not shine.

Either it was nighttime, or he’d been allowed inside.

It was almost unthinkable that he’d be allowed to rest on something soft and let inside. Surely, it had to be nighttime.

Despite his relative freedom–he could still feel a shackle on one ankle, not silver, but nothing else–he was far too mangled to move around. He simply laid there, trying to bask in the wonder of the soft thing.

“Kane?” a voice asked, hours later. He could hear it, he realized. His ears were cleared.

He knew that voice. That was the human’s voice. Jim’s voice.

The fragile hope that he might be allowed to remain on the soft thing vanished.

“Are you awake?” Jim asked. “I saw you… twitching and stuff.”

He would cry if he could. He was crying, he realized, tears falling down his burnt-up cheeks.

“It’s okay, don’t be scared. I mean, that’s–that’s a tall order, yeah. You’re not going out there again. You’re gonna be okay.”

That gentle hand returned, to his hair this time. There wasn’t much of it left, he was reasonably sure. Jim stroked what was there, his touch feather-light, like he was afraid Kane would break into pieces.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. It’s over,” Jim promised. His voice shook like he might be crying, too.

Kane wanted to believe it so, so badly. It was everything he’d ever wanted, for someone to help. Finally, finally, for the pain to end. It hadn’t even ended yet, his body was a horrific mess of seared skin, but it had been promised. No one had ever promised to help before.

He couldn’t be dreaming. It never hurt this badly in dreams, his only refuge.

“Can you open your mouth?” Jim prompted.

No. He couldn’t. He tried, just to prove it, and…

His lips popped open, revealing a perfectly-preserved, unburnt mouth.

How long had he been out? Days? Had he not been touched by the sun for days?

“You’re doing great,” Jim encouraged. “I know you’re hurting pretty bad right now. So, um, I just…”

“Here, I’ve got it.” A different voice, female, unfamiliar. Before Kane could even worry about who she was, a lid opened with a pop, and the smell of blood filled the air.

Kane did manage more than a whine, then. A desperate howl of need.

The blood poured into his mouth, cold and refreshing and salty and sweet. There was so much of it. He drank and drank and drank until there was no more. He was actually sated for once.

“That’ll help him heal faster?” Jim asked.

“Yeah. Should do the trick.”

“...Do you think he’ll be mad at me?”

Mad? How could he possibly be mad? Jim took him away from the sun. Jim let him inside. Jim gave him blood. He was going to be allowed to heal!

“I think he’ll just be happy to be out of the sun,” the other voiced his thoughts.

There was a creak on the soft think–a bed? A couch?--as someone sat next to him. “Three years ago, the hunters told me they had you,” Jim said.

Three years. That was the end of it, then? Kane had paid his price, he wouldn’t have to do it anymore? It felt too good to be true.

“I told them to kill you,” he continued. “I was scared. I thought you would be like… before. I thought you would come after me. I didn’t know what they were doing, and they told me they’d done it. I thought you were dead. I never wanted you to suffer, not like this.”

Did that mean no more? It was truly over?

“No m-more?” Kane rasped out, his voice struggling to find itself after so long.

“No more.” That gentle touch returned to his hair, and for the first time in years, there was hope.

taglist in reblogs

#whump #my writing #kane and jim au #torture #burns #gore #isolaton #touched starved #rescue #caretaking #vampire whumpee #vampire whump

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delopsia · 2 days

Text

stalling | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, cunnilingus, hand jobs, a men's masturbation sleeve, PBR! Rhett, implied marriage. (But also, Rhett Abbott being needy.) Exhibitionism, if you wanna be technical about it. Brief Summary: You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

It's the obnoxious squelch of his drooling tongue gliding over your clit that's going to give him away.

Wet little noises punctuate his every movement. So sharp that they bounce off the walls, running round and round the room and in your ears until it's all you can hear. Has your shivering fingers pulling harder on his hair, yanking him away just enough for one of those deep groans to escape, and oh god, it's only making things worse.

The last thing you need to do is give someone a reason to open the bathroom door. Walk in and catch sight of Rhett's knees against the concrete floor, between another pair of legs. Unzipped jeans pooling around his ass, one-of-a-kind rodeo buckle glinting in the light, right next to where his neglected cock rests in his lap, so heavy that it can no longer stand upright.

Cheers roar outside. A buzzer sounds, chased by the muffled shout of an announcer you've already forgotten the name of—another eight-second ride. But it's not going to be enough to steal the number one slot. No, not with that shiny new record, not even thirty minutes old yet.

"Thank you," he's panting, hardly able to draw himself back to speak, as if doing so will cause his whole world to crumble. "Thank you for letting me eat your pussy."

His tongue is so hot. A wet flame that presses into you, lazily working in and out, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit, barely there touches that have your hips jolting. But as quickly as his tongue appeared, it's drifting away entirely. Bold enough to test the waters but too impatient to commit, already venturing up, up, up, back to the swollen little bud that he can't stop tormenting.

You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

"Y' taste so good," speaking directly into you, his voice rumbling up your belly and into your chest, jostling the cluster of butterflies that have been resting there.

The heels of your palms press into his forehead, but it's not doing anything. You can't escape the frenzied twitch of his tongue, rolling back and forth, a feather-light contact that ought to send you through the roof.

"Rhett, you're gonna..." The sound of your voice is meeting your ears, but you can't feel your mouth moving. "Oh fuck—Rhett, you're gonna get us caught." And there's more that you want to say, but you're being cut short by your own drawn-out squeal, fingers knotting in those deep brown locks.

Your heart hammers against your chest with all the strength and fury of those bulls he rides. Thighs shivering, nerves set alight as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking so harshly that the noise echoes all around the room.

"'s my reward, ain't it?" He sounds almost innocent. As if his devilish tongue isn't hanging out of his mouth, the definition of sin itself. "They can't object to that."

You'd like to argue that they can, but fuck, those loose little circles are about to put you on the goddamn floor. Hips writhing, held in place by the big hands squeezing the fat of your ass, forcing you to remain upright until he's had his fill of you.

"Rhett—"

Hinges squeal as the bathroom door swings open.

Sparkling blue eyes dart up to your face, and you can't see it, but you can feel the grin working its way across his face. Boots thump across the floor, then fall silent. The sharp sound of a zipper sliding down kisses your ears. Whoever it is, they're only here for the urinal.

But Rhett Abbott doesn't care what they're here to do. Opening his mouth to lick a long, fat stripe up your pussy, so content with himself that his eyes close midway. And there's not a damn thing that you can do about it. Hands flying up to clamp over your mouth, stifling a whimper that would surely give you away.

That big, dumb idiot is pointing his tongue now. The soft tip of it delicately dancing across you, like too much pressure will cause the walls of this bathroom to come crumbling down. Diligently rolling your clit around like you're a piece of candy that he can just idly toy with. A cry squeaks out of you, hardly masked by the loud flush of the toilet.

There's no reason that this should be causing heat to pool in your lower belly, but it is. Winding tighter and tighter, a taut string pulled to its breaking point. So close to snapping that every step this stranger takes is too slow. Thunking closer and closer to the door, until finally...

It screeches open. Then, begins to close once more.

You've never been so thankful for someone not washing their hands. Already reaching down to tangle your fingers in Rhett's hair and yanking. Forcing that sinful mouth of his away from your sex before—

"No, no, no," Rhett's babbling, whining, like his life depends on it. "Please, I want y' to cum on my tongue. Please, please, I want, I want..."

You can't even begin to argue with him. Because he's already wriggling himself loose, and his dripping tongue is back on you, and his stubble is scratching against you in the most mind-numbing fashion, and your whole world goes silent.

Nothing but a faint ringing in your ears as your thighs clamp down around his skull, cumming without the slightest bit of warning. Head tilting back, thunking against the wall. A wildfire rushing across your skin in the form of a shiver. And Rhett just can't help himself, humming, licking you through it until the involuntary spasm of your pussy devolves into oversensitive, full-body jolts.

"You..." sucking in a gasp, "have a problem."

Understatement of the century. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was being paid.

Rhett leans back onto his haunches, scruffy, unshaven chin glistening in the light. Dripping, even. "But I'm your problem." You don't know who taught him that, but they're going to get an earful when you catch them.

"That you are," weak, you pull on his hair, hardly enough to even sway his head. "Come up here, dummy."

There's hardly a bit of strength left in your body, and yet, somehow, your little motion is enough to get him moving, knees creaking and all, as he rises to his feet. Wet nose bumping into your cheek, nuzzling you in some odd, dog-like fashion that has you succumbing to the urge to slide your hand down and scratch him behind the ear.

Eyelashes flutter. Pushing back into your hand. "You pettin' me?"

"You gonna do something about it if I am?" Taunting, beneath your breath.

His eyes roll, but he doesn't need to open his mouth for you to know what his answer is. Not when he's smiling like that, a lopsided grin and half-lidded eyes. So laid back and content that he hardly seems to realize that both of your hands are making their way down to his waist, grabbing hold of it and forcing him to spin around.

Boots chirp against the floor. And you're reaching toward your purse with one hand, blindly feeling against the stall door until you can find where it's hanging. The other arm slips around his belly, cinching him to you. His back knocks into your chest, so close that his hair tickles your cheek.

"Y' ain't gotta..." he starts, but whatever he's trying to tell you dies in his throat. Shut up by the clear object you're drawing out of your bag. The new stroker sleeve you've been saying you'll try out but have never had the patience to dig it out of the drawer. Inconspicuous at first glance, just a rubber cylinder, textured with little nubs on the inside.

"Can you do something for me?" Ghosting your lips over the shell of his ear.

It's impossible to miss the shiver that rattles down his spine. "Uhuh." Nodding dumbly.

"Touch yourself." Comes out as more of an order than a request, but that doesn't matter because Rhett's already reaching for himself. Big hand wrapping around his neglected cock, sucking in an audible breath from that alone.

You can't dig the lube out fast enough, popping open the cap and blindly pouring it into the toy. So half-assed that some of it winds up spilling out the side, running over your fingers and dripping to the floor. But you don't care; a mess is worth the sight of Rhett stroking himself, twisting his wrist just how he likes it, hips greedily leaning up into his own touch.

Lazy, you drizzle some of the lube right onto his hand, uncaring of the mess you're making. Almost entranced as he spreads it over himself, shimmering in the dull bathroom light.

But then he's reaching out, sticky hand impatiently curling around yours, trying to guide the toy toward himself. "I want..." his head shakes, searching for words. "Want..."

If this were any other day, you like to imagine you'd play dumb. Force him to put into words exactly what he wants and how. But the rodeo crowd and the booming voice of the announcer are still out there, anticipating his celebratory return, and that new, sparkling record ought to warrant him a reward.

He knows that he's getting what he wants, too. Hand sliding back to his base, holding himself still as you lower that dripping toy onto him.

His head tilts backward with a gasp, falling onto your shoulder.

All that and you've hardly slid the thing past his flushed tip, almost have to squeeze him to you in order to keep him still, working down him inch by devastating inch.

"Oh my god," a little waver in his voice, hips involuntarily jerking up into the sleeve. Those knees buckle, knocking into each other. "Fuck."

A giggle rumbles out of him, and you don't need to look in the mirror to know that his cheeks have turned a nice shade of strawberry, set off by the sound of his own voice. One of these days, you'll get him to believe that he sounds pretty like this, but right now, you've got a different agenda on your plate.

"Tell me how it feels," you whisper, slowly drawing that toy back up, squeezing your fist past his cock head, then beginning to draw down again.

"Feels..." but he's forgotten how to talk, mouth floundering without a sound. "'s tight...and—mmh!"

Maybe it's your fault for twisting back up so quickly, but you just can't help it. Not when his ass is squirming back into you, unsure if he wants to push into the toy or wriggle away, mouth hardly muffling that long, drawn-out groan. Even through the thick silicone, you can feel the way he twitches, jerking in your hand like a live wire.

So, so sensitive after a couple days of no fun.

Your hand is already quickening. Too eager to hear those breathy little oh, oh, oh's, set off by the flick of your wrist when you pass over his head. Thighs squeeze together, one of his hands flying out to brace himself against the mirror. The one that you can't quit looking at. Downright obsessed with the sight of this clear silicone hugging tight around his cock. The way precum is already spilling out of him and dripping onto the floor below.

"Feels—feels good," tripping over his own words, voice so high that you hardly recognize it. "Fuck."

And just like that, your hand stops. Squeezing firm at his base as he involuntarily jolts forward.

A whine echoes through the bathroom. Pitchy. Frustrated. "Why...why did you..." He tilts his head to meet your eye. "You stopped." Speaking dumbly.

"I know." Grinning. Your hand loosens just enough for him to move again. "Try and fuck it by yourself."

Almost automatically, he tries to jerk forward. Boots stumbling across the floor, forearm flying up to catch himself as his upper body falls forward. Forehead against the mirror, dark blue eyes locked on the sight of that sleeve wrapped around his cock.

Weak, his hips begin to move.

Hissing as he draws back, almost hesitant to move, like he's afraid to slip out of the toy entirely. And it's...fuck that's a sight you haven't seen before. The obscenity of Rhett fucking a cock sleeve, how his balls sway with the motion of his body, perfect for you to reach down and grab. Heavy in your palm, so full that you worry what may happen if you do anything more than run your thumb up and down them.

"This ain't—I can't," Rhett croaks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "This is hard."

The hand around his dick tightens, sends him jumping. "You can do it."

And he just can't help himself. Feet shifting the slightest bit, trying again. Quicker this time, the lube squelching so loudly that it bounces off the wall. His mouth falls open, fogging up the mirror, panting like a dog on a summer day. Soft noises tumbling out of him, unable to stop a single one of them.

"There you go," you murmur directly into his ear. "That's a good boy."

Pearly white teeth sink into his bottom lip. Eyes squeezing shut.

He's trying.

He's trying so, so hard. But he just can't move quickly enough. Trapped in the crevices of this awkward position, fucking himself into your hand, arms braced over his head, legs too close together. So frustrating that you can hear it in his little grunts, bubbling out of him with every thrust.

"Please," he rasps, head thunking against the mirror. "Please, please, please."

You've got a feeling you know what he's after. "What do you want?"

"I wanna cum!" He's blurting before you've even finished talking. "Please—please let me cum."

The buzz of yet another eight-second ride sounds. Loud. Booming through the walls and into this little bathroom. But it's not enough to cover up Rhett's sob as your hand begins to move once more. Pumping him in tandem with his frantic hips. Drinking in those airy cries rolling off his tongue, hanging halfway out of his mouth.

"This what you were wanting?" Coy, your teeth find the lobe of his ear, tugging gently.

"Mhm," is all you're getting out of him. And he's reaching down between his own legs, dragging your hand out from where it's still toying with his balls and squeezing it tight. Needs something to cling to. Anything that isn't this cold mirror in front of him.

Those darkened eyes peel open, locking with yours through the reflection, and his mouth is shaping around what you think is your name, but not a syllable is escaping. Almost immediately, they flicker shut once more. Your wrist flicks once.

Rhett cums with a strangled moan. Body jerking against yours. Feet stumbling. And your hand is moving so fast that the toy catches that first rope of cum before it can splatter on the mirror, then the second. Smearing it across his spasming cock, creates a dizzying mess with the lube, so much of it that he's dripping, little spots of it scattering on the floor and the toe of his left boot.

"Fuck," his breath fogs the glass. "That was...oh."

Your hand freezes halfway down his length. Almost forgot it was moving to begin with.

"No, no, no," lazily tilting his head to peer over his shoulder, "keep goin' for a second."

And so you do.

Slow as you can possibly manage, dragging the mess of a toy up and down his cock. He's sensitive. You know he is because he's shifting his weight onto the tips of his toes, fist tightening until his knuckles whiten, but there's a shiver visibly running up his spine. Cum spills out of his swollen tip. Hardly enough to count, but it's something.

"'s good," Rhett murmurs after a moment. You've hardly got to do anything; he's already pulling away on his own, drawing that softening cock of his out of the toy altogether. Falls limp against his thigh, that sickly mixture of cum and lube already beginning to stain his jeans.

It's a mess that'll have to be dealt with in the privacy of your hotel room because he's already tucking himself away. Pulling up his zipper and fastening that gaudy championship buckle. One of a kind.

A selfish part of you hopes that tonight's buckle is a little easier on the eyes.

One of his knees buckles as he turns, a big hand flying out to catch himself against the wall. "Shit," he's giggling, peering at you through the hair that's fallen into his face, "y' got me all weak in the knees, doll."

"Don't tell me you need to be carried," you're saying as if you're not intrigued by the idea of giving it a shot.

"Nah," shaking his head, smile so big that his teeth glint in the overhead light. "Might need a few kisses to get me through the night, though."

Eyeroll. Your free hand darts out, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and hauling him in, meeting those pale, swollen lips for a sloppy smooch. The first one lands awkwardly on the corner of his mouth, both of you leaning in the wrong damn direction. But then Rhett's tilting his head, nose bumping into yours, and he's meeting you properly. One little chaste kiss after another.

A muffled voice creeps through the walls. Distorted, but you can still hear those two little words all the same.

"They're calling for you, Abbott," speaking against his lips, making no real effort to pull away. It'll be a few hours before you get to steal this many kisses again.

He hums. "Which one?" Kiss. "There's two of us standin' here." Kiss.

Weak, your hand thunks against his chest. "The dumb one who climbs on dangerous animals for fun."

"That's both of us, sweetheart," he had to have been storing that. There's no way he could have come up with that so quickly on his own, grinning like a cat that's gotten the cream.

"You're not a wild animal," adjusting the hem of your shorts, blindly feeling about to make sure that they've fallen back into place.

Nobody will know what you've been up to, so long as they don't see the bite mark on your inner thigh.

"I can be," Rhett winks.

That's an argument that you'll have to settle in the hotel room. Before you can even say another word, he's darting for the door, sliding open the latch, a melody of laughter trailing behind.

"Hurry!" He's barricading himself up against the entryway. Feet dug into the ground, hair sticking up every which way. "Before Archie comes lookin' and figures out 'm not actually sick."

You can't get to the sink quickly enough.

And if anyone notices that Rhett is a little looser than usual when he climbs that stage to accept his award, nobody says a word. Too focused on the hoopla of a brand new record, the glimmer of a brand new belt buckle, tacky as all hell and a lifetime worse than the one that sits sideways against his belly.

...but they might notice when he turns his head and flashes a ruby red bruise lurking just below his ear.

Sure wonder where that came from.

#rhett abbott x reader #afab reader #oneshot #rhett abbott #outer range #but also ->#oc: archie morton #though his existence is only implied

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genericpuff · 2 hours

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Tbh at this point you should just make your own webcomic app/website because it would probably be 100 times better than whatever going on with webtoon right now.

hahaha it wouldn't tho, sorry 💀

Here's the fundamental issue with webcomic platforms that a lot of people just don't realize (and why they're so difficult to run successfully):

Storage costs are incredibly expensive, it's why so many sites have limitations on file sizes / page sizes / etc. because all of those images and site info have to be stored somewhere, which costs $$$.

Maintenance costs are expensive and get more so as you grow, you need people who are capable of fixing bugs ASAP and managing the servers and site itself

Financially speaking, webcomics are in a state of high supply, low demand. Loads of artists are willing to create their passion projects, but getting people to read them and pay for them is a whole other issue. Demand is high in the general sense that once people get attached to a webtoon they'll demand more, but many people aren't actually willing to go looking for new stuff to read and depend more on what sites feed them (and what they already like). There are a lot of comics to go around and thus a lot of competition with a limited audience of people willing to actually pay for them.

Trying to build a new platform from the ground up is incredibly difficult and a majority of sites fail within their first year. Not only do you have to convince artists to take a chance on your platform, you have to convince readers to come. Readers won't come if there isn't work on the platform to read, but artists won't come if they don't think the site will be worth it due to low traffic numbers. This is why the artists with large followings who are willing to take chances on the smaller sites are crucial, but that's only if you can convince them to use the site in favor of (or alongside) whatever platform they're using already where the majority of their audience lies. For many creators it's just not worth the time, energy, or risk.

Even if you find short-term success, in the long-term there are always going to be profit margins to maintain. The more users you pull in, the more storage is used by incoming artists, the more you have to spend on storage and server maintenance costs, and that means either taking the risk at crowdfunding (ex. ComicFury) or having to resort to outsider investments (ex. Tapas). Look at SmackJeeves, it used to be a titan in the independent webcomic hosting community, until it folded over to a buyout by NHN and then was pretty much immediately shuttered due to NHN basically turning it into a manwha scanlation site and driving away its entire userbase. And if you don't get bought out and try your hand at crowdfunding, you may just wind up living on a lifeline that could cut out at any moment, like what happened to Inkblazers (fun fact, the death of Inkblazers was what kicked off the cultural shift in Tapas around 2015-16 when all of IB's users migrated over and brought their work with them which was more aimed towards the BL and romancee drama community, rather than the comedy / gag-a-day culture that Tapas had made itself known for... now you deadass can't tell Tapas apart from a lot of scanlation sites because it got bought out by Kakao and kept putting all of its eggs into the isekai/romance drama basket.)

Right now the mindset in which artists and readers are operating is that they're trying way, way too hard to find a "one size fits all" site. Readers want a place where they can find all their favorite webtoons without much effort, artists wants a place where they can post to an audience of thousands, and both sides want a community that will feel tight-knit. But the reality is that you can't really have all three of those things, not on one site. Something always winds up having to be sacrificed - if a site grows big enough, it'll have to start seeking more funding while also cutting costs which will result in features becoming paywall'd, intrusive ads, creators losing their freedom, and/or outsider support which often results in the platform losing its core identity and alienating its tight-knit community.

If I had to describe what I'm talking about in a "pick one" graphic, it would look something like this:

(*note: this is mostly based on my own observations from using all of these sites at some point or another, they're not necessarily entirely accurate to the statistical performance of each site, I can only glean so much from experience and traffic trackers LMAO that said I did ask some comic pals for input and they were very helpful in helping me adjust it with their own takes <3).

The homogenization of the Internet has really whipped people into submission for the "big sites" that offer "everything", but that's never been the Internet, it relies on being multi-faceted and offering different spaces for different purposes. And we're seeing that ideology falter through the enshittification of sites like Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, etc. where users are at odds with the platforms because the platforms are gutting features in an attempt to satisfy shareholders whom without the platforms would not exist. Like, most of us aren't paying money to use social media sites / comic platform sites, so where else are they gonna make the necessary funds to keep these sites running? Selling ad space and locking features behind paywalls.

And this is especially true for a lot of budding sites that don't have the audience to support them via crowdfunding but also don't have the leverage to ask for investments - so unless they get really REALLY lucky in EITHER of those departments, they're gonna be operating at a loss, and even once they do achieve either of those things there are gonna be issues in the site's longevity, whether it be dying from lack of growing crowdfunding support or dying from shareholder meddling.

So what can we do?

We can learn how to take our independence back. We don't have to stop using these big platforms altogether as they do have things to offer in their own way, particularly their large audience sizes and dipping into other demographics that might not be reachable from certain sites - but we gotta learn that no single site is going to satisfy every wish we have and we have to be willing to learn the skills necessary to running our own spaces again. Pick up HTML/CSS, get to know other people who know HTML/CSS if you can't grasp it (it's me, I can't grasp it LOL), be willing to take a chance on those "smaller sites" and don't write them off entirely as spaces that can be beneficial to you just because they don't have large numbers or because they don't offer rewards programs. And if you have a really polished piece of work in your hands, look into agencies and publishing houses that specialize in indie comics / graphic novels, don't settle for the first Originals contract that gets sent your way.

For the last decade corporations have been convincing us that our worth is tied to the eyes we can bring to them. Instead of serving ourselves, we've begun serving the big guys, insisting that it has to be worth something eventually and that it'll "payoff" simply by the virtue of gambler's fallacy. Ask yourself what site is right for you and your work rather than asking yourself if your work is good enough for them. Most of us are broke trying to make it work on these sites anyways, may as well be broke and fulfilled by posting in places that actually suit us and our work if we can. Don't define your success by what sites like Webtoons are enforcing - that definition only benefits them, not you.

#my favorite out of these is comicfury because it gives you the most control out of all of them #and you can offer monetization tools like ads and patreon links #it also offers super easy tools to help build your own site if you're new to that #it's as close to “running your own site” as comic hosting can get #but you can also learn how to run your own site if you want undeniably full control without fear of the platform host shuttering #also look into collectives like SpiderForest!#they basically operate as a co-op where people host their work with them and get ad opportunities #but you have to apply to get in #ama #ask me anything #anon ama #anon ask me anything #webcomic tips

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