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ghostwhippet · 1 month ago

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From Scratch

Nutrition Info: Johnny/Reader; 4k; a meetcute launched by Reader's inability to cook reasonable portions, and Johnny's... well, just Johnny

No matter how long you live alone, you can’t get the hang of cooking for one person. Even when you try to make a single-serving meal instead of batch cooking, somehow it balloons out of control. Wasting food makes you feel awful, but you can only freeze so much.

One evening, desperate and utterly fed up, you go kick gently at a neighbor’s door, both hands full, trying to mimic a knock with your shoe. Jason, you think his name was? Striking blue eyes, big frame, a cute cropped mohawk, amazing brogue, and he’s always been cordial when you’ve run into him around the building. Friendly, but not too friendly.

He’s understandably confused by your request at first, but seems happy enough for the food, and takes it around your repeated apologies–for bothering him, for existing, for anything you can find, really.

Unfortunately, not even forcing yourself to go and do all of that manages to pierce your shite sense of volume. Your trips to his door do get less awkward over time, though. And Johnny, his name is, always has sparklingly clean dishes and containers to return in exchange for the full ones.

Eventually he just starts showing up at your place instead and eats with you at your bar counter. He didn’t really ask, and you definitely didn’t, but there he is all the same, and… if you're honest? He’s just so easy to be around, it quickly feels natural having him there. He puts you off your guard, puts you at ease and makes you smile, like those are somehow the most natural things in the world.

From that first night, Johnny has insisted on helping with dishes. Starting the second, he’s always got groceries with him. Even manages to talk you out of your discomfort over accepting them, so well that on his fourth night, you’ve got a small shopping list ready. He’s cheeky, you don’t think he’ll mind. And he is right, after all: you're probably feeding him at least three or four nights out of the week, what with all the leftovers.

You start eating better, and trying new things you'd always planned on “getting around to,” now that you've got a reason to cook beyond not starving. Everything comes out fine the first time you make it, when you’re closely following a recipe, and Johnny has no qualms about trying anything you put in front of him. You’ve never met someone so genuinely un-fussy when it comes to food.

A couple months after he’s started eating at your place, he disappears for a while. “Work trip,” is all he'll say, and you don’t pry, even though you really want to.

Once he’s back, he starts coming over weekend afternoons sometimes. You do brunch with beer or fancy drinks in champagne flutes, or occasional breakfast on the roof before other people are awake, him in a big hoodie or jumper, and you wearing a thick blanket like it's trying to digest you, looking like a half-drowned cat because no living being is meant to be awake at such an hour.

You cut fruit into mangled flowers and vague geometric shapes for the brunches, usually while just spending time with him. He tries his hand at it once, with you pulling up videos, laughing the whole time you’re explaining how it’s supposed to work, and the utter bastard is better at it on his first go than you were after weeks. His hands are confoundingly steady, and his hand-eye coordination borders on the unnatural.

That’s probably the official start of his sous chef arc. And that’s what has him spending a night judging your knives and marveling, repeatedly and loudly, that you still have all your fingers.

You might put a piece of eggshell into his omelet that night in retaliation, and he might not even have the decency to react to it.

“...Johnny I can hear it crunching, oh my God would you spit it out!” You manage between laughter that’s got your face hurting.

That happens a lot around him. Smiling so much it hurts.

“Nah, i’s nice texture,” he says around the mouthful, then starts enunciating the longer words. “Very advanced technique. Shows a great awareness of the culinary experience–”

“You’re being such a prat. Why are you being such a prat!”

He talks over you as if he can’t hear you, as if he’s doing some mockingly posh review. “And honestly, the crunching–” he pauses and chomps down on the shell for effect, and how is it still intact, “it really engages the senses. Keeps me immersed in my dining experience.”

You regret loaning him your cooking books. Never again.

After that, though, he steals your knives, takes them home, and they come back so sharp you can cut windowpane slices of potato. He offers to teach you how to do it yourself–after stipulating with heart-clenching eagerness that he’s happy to come over and do it for you any time.

Johnny gets weirdly into shopping farmer’s markets, walking around discovering new produce and varieties of things he’s never seen before. “Fuck would I know tomatoes come in this color? Look at this thing, it’s like a feckin’... it’s a wee lumpy sunset, isn’t it? And this! Like someone took the heart of a dragon,” his voice had gone terribly dramatic, and you definitely hadn’t covered your face, “and stuck it on a bush somewhere.”

“Baby how are you so huge, but so adorable?” You don't know when the pet names started, but you know he started them; sometimes it feels like you two grew up together.

You like the challenge of the new and unexpected ingredients that come from his trips, and by this point, he’s keeping your kitchen pretty stocked with whatever oddball pantry items you ask for, so you're set up to deal with almost anything. But on rare occasions he’ll call you with a question, too. You’ve had each other’s numbers for a while, it just made coordinating easier.

“Oi can you make sommat with uh… fiddlehead ferns?”

You always can, whatever he asks about. It just takes a quick internet search to find out if you can tackle it that same night, or if it needs to wait for another day. Sometimes it ends up disastrous, but like a shot, Johnny has you laughing or throwing something at him (usually-but-not-always also while laughing) before guilt or shame can get a proper foothold.

There was a night when he was too excited about something to wait for you to answer the door when he knocked, and since then, he just sort of comes in on his own after he announces himself—at least when you know to expect him. That feels right, too, just like having him at your counter had.

You’re feeding the both of you almost every night of the week by now, even if you’re still not cooking often. You like being around him so much, you can’t imagine doing it less, not even when cooking is the last thing you want to be doing. It’s like there’s a bubbly little sun in your chest when he’s around.

Johnny makes you so happy, in fact, and you’re so afraid of losing your time with him, it’s nearly six months before the first time you have to tap out of a dinner, too knackered to make yourself even casually presentable, nevermind cook so much as instant noodles.

He reacts like it’s no problem at all, which of course he’d do, because he’s wonderful, but you don’t manage to keep your heart from dropping that he’s not at least a little sad. That he doesn’t, maybe, look forward to the nights like you do. You know your arrangement is practical, and he’s never been over unless there was food involved, but… well… seeing him seems to have become rather… vital to you.

Which means it’s better to put it away, anyhow, right?

So when, an hour after you’d texted him and basically all he’d said was No problem, thinking takeout, any votes?, he’s coming through your front door with delivery bags and talking a mile a minute like it’s just another night, you're left with your mouth open and your hand on the knob, because… because he's here.

You're not cooking, but he's still here.

You just stand there gobsmacked as he sits on the couch, nattering away, half the food out before he even realizes you’re still playing doorstop. He asks if you’re having the time of your life or if you’re going to come sit down, those horrible (wonderful) crinkles at the sides of his eyes, brows pulled up in the middle.

He looks confused when you say you want to freshen up, like he can’t see that your hair might’ve lost a row with a feral rodent, or that you’re wearing clothes that shouldn’t even be outside of a bin, nevermind on a person. He just tells you the food will get cold, and that it’ll be no good that way.

So you run your hands through your hair and sit, subdued and uncertain like you haven’t been around him in ages, as he amiably fills the silence. You know he can tell you’re not right, but he’s just… acting like it’s ok that you aren’t.

Midway through the meal, he reaches forward to grab a container and put it in front of you, and it makes his knee come up against yours.

It doesn’t move away when he sits back.

Then, as the night wears on and the very most jagged edges of your weariness have eased, he makes a joke and you bump your shoulder into him in retaliation. It pushes your legs flush… and neither of you do anything to separate them. He just keeps on being Johnny like nothing is different, like nothing strange is happening, like he can’t see how bloody flushed you must be, like the room hasn't turned to glass and burst, leaving the both of you toppling through the air.

You're not stupid, so you have to tell yourself repeatedly that he’s just trying to comfort you. He’s acting completely normal otherwise—for Johnny—and you look like a person in need of a friend tonight. And same as him, you’re at all your meal nights instead of off with friends or dates. At least for him, it’s because of his career. You haven’t even seen him bringing up a new fling in ages.

…You’re not stupid. Right?

After the food is finished, Johnny putters about cleaning up, working his way around your kitchen like he knows it exactly as well as he does. He puts all but one container of leftovers in your fridge.

You hug your knees comfortably, just sort of watching him, too full of static to be paranoid about it, and he either doesn’t realize or isn’t bothered by it. Not being a complete creep, you don’t keep it up for too long, anyhow. You’ve got plenty to occupy your thoughts.

He surprises you on his way out by casually setting a mug in front of you. He’d made you something hot to drink while he was cleaning up, and you were so spaced you hadn’t realized. He just gives you a little smile, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder with a stroke of his thumb, says, “Wednesday, yeah?” (the night of your next normal get-together), and moves on toward the door. All normal. But there’s some metal in your chest painfully bending itself into unaccustomed shapes, jabbing places that aren’t used to the pressure, pushing into your windpipe until it’s hard to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from telling him that you made up a new seasoning blend for popcorn, if he’d maybe like to watch a movie before he goes.

He stands there by the door looking at you just for a split second too long, opens his mouth, closes it, then settles right back onto the couch up next to you. He reaches out an arm and pulls you gently into his side, moving in a way that makes it an invitation and not a demand, while he’s talking about what to watch.

You fall asleep there. So does he.

Things turn a bit funny after that in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. At the surface, everything is the same. But nothing feels the same. Every time there’s a tease, casual touches, close quarters, you have to chant not stupid not stupid not stupid on repeat in your head. He’s just Johnny, that’s all. The guy you could have grown up with.

You keep up the dinners and the weekends, and eventually, finally realize that with him around to take all your extras, you can bake. It’s something you’ve wanted to try forever, but recipes don’t really make single servings, and you never had anyone to pawn off the other 22 muffins or ¾ of the cake onto, or the sheet of croissants, because you absolutely want to try the most fussy, difficult things. And it turns out, when at last he tells you what he does, that Johnny works at the local military base–which at least explains his size–so if he can’t polish something off, well, he knows some blokes.

You’re so excited after that, things almost seem to return to normal. He even comes over and hangs out while you’re baking sometimes. Just knocking about, licking the beaters and the spoons and the bowls, doing dishes as you go, fidgeting with this or that, all while knowing you’re equally as likely to produce something inedible as you are a treat.

Johnny tells you a little about his career one evening. He says that it means he’s in real danger often, there’s a lot of secrecy with people in his personal life, long absences and surprise ones, shit pay, and likely a brief expiration date. (You don’t really let that last one in). He’s got a bit of a funny look in his eyes when he shares about all of it. Quite focused on you, in a way? It makes your cheeks heat. It isn’t as if it’s on you to approve of his life.

But at least now you understand why he’s on his own. And you suppose you’re a bit small, because while you’re incredibly sad for him, part of you is thrilled that it means he’s not likely to be swept away by someone else too soon.

You just gather yourself up, smile, and tell him that at least he’s spending the time he has as best he can, which is a hell of a lot more than a lot of people do–although you personally hope there’s a lot more of it. And that… at the end, you're glad for all the times you're involved.

Johnny’s leaning against the counter while you fold nuts and rum-soaked fruit into a thick batter, his normally busy hands jammed into his pockets, posture a bit off, and so close you almost keep elbowing him on accident, the two of you just bantering back and forth.

You turn your head toward him to fire back, and–

–his mouth is just there, on yours.

He lingers, but doesn’t move otherwise. It’s… testing, you think. You feel his lips shake against yours, in fact, just once.

Your shock dies fast and your eyes slip closed, and while it’s a brief kiss, when he pulls away, you don’t open them. You can’t. Because if you’re honest, you’ve probably been gone for him since the first time you gave him a friendly hug goodnight, and it’s only ever gotten worse. If you open your eyes, this won’t be real, or it won’t have happened, or it will shatter somehow.

After a pause, he runs the back of a finger down your temple, trailing the side of your face to your jaw. You still won’t open your eyes, so he just toys with your face until you do.

He’s got a soul-crushing smile at the corners of his eyes.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he admits into the quiet.

“...Oh?” Your voice is embarrassingly, unhelpfully breathy. It’d probably be mortifying, if you had the mental capacity to fully register embarrassment at the moment.

He pauses, smile making its way to his lips, and curling them up at the corners, bit by bit. He cants his head, just a little, like he wants to see you from another angle. “Aye. …Might’ve been since the first time I saw you at the mailboxes.”

“Oh?”

That had been one of the first times you remember ever seeing him. He never said a word to you other than, “Mornin’” or “Evenin’,” if he said anything at all.

His smile blooms until you can see his teeth. “You were wearing this little shirt. Green, thin. Bit worn, like it was a favorite. Showed a wee spot of skin at your back.” His fingers brush the spot, soft and testing, near the base of your spine, and it jolts you from scalp to toes. “Might’ve… lost some time, thinking about what it’d feel like if I slid my hand up there.” He toys with the hem of your shirt and steps in, voice going deeper and rougher around the edges. “Might’ve imagined pushing it up, getting a bit closer. Really might’ve imagined putting your back up to the slots, mo–”

You kiss him this time, before he can go on, and it’s anything but testing.

And just like everything else about him, this fits.

His mouth fits against yours. His body fits against yours. And as if some band of control snaps, so abruptly you swear you feel it jolt through his skin, he's got you up on the counter, his thighs between yours, both of you already breathing hard.

His hands on you are perfect, calloused, slipping up under the back of your shirt, smoothing and gripping, making your chest and your thighs feel molten. It's ravenous, like he just has to touch your skin, has to get you closer. You arch toward him, fingers running up through his hair, legs curling around his and pulling him nearer.

His hips are carefully, stubbornly, infuriatingly back from you, but the kiss is so full of need, so close, that some of his breaths sound hollow against your mouth. It's like he can't decide whether inhaling or devouring you is more important, so he just doesn't choose.

When you're at the point of moaning unintentionally, of hungry little sounds forcing their way out of your chest, of your hips moving against the counter in desperation, when you're moments from outright begging, Johnny pulls back, and goes further when you try to chase his mouth.

His lips are red and full, his face dark--much worse when he catches sight of how completely drunk you must look--and he's panting. His fingers dig into your hips like he's trying to keep one or both of you from drowning. He squeezes his eyes shut.

You don't mean to, you really don't, but you look down, and lord help you but–

“That looks painful,” you tell him. Your voice sounds like it's been run over a washboard. He's tented against his denim, and his size is… proportional.

…You can't seem to remember how to make yourself look up.

“Really rather not talk about my cock just now, love,” he gravels, fingers clenching briefly against you. His head tips forward onto your shoulder, breaths panting out against your collar bone, leaving you to pick up every bit of heat he's trying to get out of himself.

You hum, teasing. “Shame, because I can't think of anything I'd rather talk ab—”

His big paw covers your mouth. “For the love of every Saint, I’m beggi—”

You cut him off right back. By licking his palm.

He recoils in horror, but the moment your eyes meet, you both burst into laughter, made worse every time he tries to tell you how disgusting that is, something about his sisters as kids, you don't know what else.

You're the first to sober, breathing almost back to normal, thoughts already whirring on fast-forward. You look down, pulling your knees together, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Are we…. Will we be ok, after this?”

You peek up to see him looking at you like you're daft.

“‘S been the better part of a year,” he says softly, moving forward and running his thumbs over your knees. Asking your legs to make room again, to let him get close again. “Have you really not figured it out, all this time?”

Your legs open hesitantly, and he steps in and, when you look up at him, kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, slow and warm and so tender it feels like your chest is cracking right down the center.

Eyes closed, brows a little pinched, you murmur, “We can't all be SAS savants, Johnny.” Maybe you know. Maybe. But it has been all this time, so maybe you need to hear it, too.

He's still kissing, pace unhurried and savouring, making his way to your jaw and just beneath it. But it's calming now, somewhere between reverential and still trying to bring the both of you down. Himself especially, you think.

“Then let me spell it out for you. Gladly.” He noses up against the bottom of your ear and roughs, “You are fucking stuck with me. Glued. Bloody welded.” He huffs a laugh and leans back upright—but not all the way, not too far back. “This isnae a new thing for me. You know that, right? I just….” He shakes his head and abandons the thought, “Hell, my mates have already been asking when they can come over for dinner, the dobbers.”

Your brows shoot up. “You've talked about me at work?”

He looks down, and while his face is in half a scowl, you'd swear he does it to hide a slight flush, too. “Haven't shut up about you, more like. Should hear what my Lieutenant– Ach, nevermind that.”

You hurry to say that they're welcome any time, but it makes him scowl fully.

“Not exactly keen on the idea just yet.” He puts his arms around you, buries his face in your neck, and just stands there, breathing you in. He mutters into the crook of your shoulder, “Mind if I stay like this for a bit? Just while I, uh… calm down.”

His hips are still well back from you. You’re not sure you’ve ever adored and hated him so much at once.

“I’d really like that,” you tell him softly, arms going around his ribs, hands on his shoulders, chest to chest.

It's warm and resounding like this, so after a spell, without thinking, you bite his shoulder. Just sink your teeth in and leave them there. It’s not even entirely conscious, it's just so comfortable and comforting.

“All good, there, wee piranha?” he eventually asks, a smile in his voice.

You detach instantly. “Ah, sorry! I, uh, might have a tiny bit of an oral fixation.”

He groans. “Are ye trying to do me in?”

“I’m not the one who said we had to stop, Mr. Military Discipline.”

His eyes darken in a flash, but he tamps down on it just as quickly and gets that godawful cocky look on his face, instead. “Pardon me for not wanting to rush something that really matters.” His tone goes so soft at the end that you can’t even be mad at him--exactly as you know he intended, the great bastard.

“How did I not know what a sadist you are?”

And that look means he’s about to make you eat your words.

“Johnny I will happily kill you in your sleep.”

“I could handle that. Means you'd be in my bed, aye?”

He pulls your hands up from the death grip they've found on the edge of the counter and laces your fingers together. “I dinnae….” He clears his throat, frowns. “Just being away on deployment is shite now, and I love what I do. But I miss you while I'm gone, think about you back here all the bloody time, and we havnae even….”

When he doesn’t finish, you whisper, heart clenching with the realization, “You really don't want to rush this.”

He laughs quietly like he wants to argue. But what he says is, “No. I don't. But while that's true….” He steps in, chin ducking, eyes darkening even as they shine, voice lowering. “What do you say we turn the oven off? I've a funny feeling you willnae be getting around to that bake today.”

Masterlist

#johnny soap mactavish #cod soap #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap x reader #johnny mactavish #slow burn #friends to lovers #060cod #meet cute #comfort fic #demisexual #fluff #johnny x reader #cod

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bunnis-monsters · 4 months ago

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See you again

Male!Yandere!Vampire x Fem!Reader

Bunni’s Monstertober Event

Oct 8th

Oct 7th

Oct 9th

summary: when a rich vampire suspects you are a reincarnation of his lover, you have no choice but to return with him to his manor and become his wife.

warnings: yandere behavior, breeding, dubcon, aphrodisiac venom

a/n: sorry this is so late I’ve had horrible writers block lately ><

Moonlight flickered through the stained glass window, casting a multicolored light across your plump frame.

You almost glowed, looking like an angel sent from above.

He had spotted you across the ballroom an hour ago.

The vampire usually never came to such things, but it was a particularly lonely night for him. About 20 years ago, his human lover died in his arms. A plague had swept across the town she lived, and he hadn’t been there quick enough to turn her before the illness took her life.

He had spent all that time in agony, drifting between thoughts of suicide and loathing, to moments of bliss when he’d remember how much he loved her… and she loved him.

Tonight was the anniversary of her death, and he figured he’d drown his sorrows in the blood of the rich and expensive alcohol.

Instead, he found you.

You were sitting at a table, your elegant gown ill fired on your plump frame. Your breasts were absolutely squished by the tight fabric, and his eyes were drab to your fat belly.

If he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought you were her, his love, his everything. You had the same plump frame, eye color, hair the same texture and style…

God you were gorgeous… his pants tightened as he caught a whiff of your perfume.

The same scent she used to use.

He took in a deep breath before approaching you. Maybe a night of fun could… make him feel just a little bit better.

“Hello, beautiful…”

You didn’t look up, assuming he was talking to someone else. This made him pause for a moment before he walked closer and cleared his throat. “My lady, may I have a word with you?”

When your eyes met his, he nearly teared up. He felt an instant spark, his undead heart soaring. You had to be her, no one else had ever made him feel this way before!

“What is it you’d like to speak about?”

He sat down across from you, smiling. “How about you tell me your name?”

The two of you spent the next hour making idle small talk, with him leading most of it. You were shy and soft spoken, much like you had been in your previous life.

You had borrowed a dress from your cousin to attend this party in hopes of finding a decently wealthy husband, an order given to you by your father. That explained why your gown was ill fitting. The man frowned deeply, his fangs threatening to peek out from his lip.

He would be making sure you wore only the finest of fabrics from now on, each dress and outfit custom made to suit your figure. Gods, he wanted to undress you right now more than anything…

But things like this were a process. He didn’t want to hurt or scare you so badly that you tried to flee, and he would rather you home with him willingly. Scaring you would have to wait until you were reliant on him…

So instead he listened to your woes and leaned forward. As long as he could get close enough to your neck to deliver a bite, he could bring you home with him…

“So your father’s business isn’t doing well, I assume?”

You nodded shyly, playing with a bit of lace on your dress. “That’s why he wants me to marry quickly while he still has his status… he hopes that my future husband will support him financially enough to keep the business afloat.”

“How troublesome, being stuck in the middle of this…”

He reached out to caress your cheek, shivering when he made contact with your soft skin. “Mmm… wouldn’t it be nice to get away from it all?”

You were about to say something, but he spoke over you. “Come with me, my love… perhaps I can do something to help.”

Your eyes lit up. He was dressed well, and people seemed to respect him enough to make way for him while you walked through the crowded ballroom to somewhere private! Maybe he could help your father…

But as he closed the door, something shifted. His eyes that had previously been a rich brown in color suddenly changed to be a startling ruby red.

“Oh, how I have yearned for you…”

He was on you in seconds, pinning you to the wall. You couldn’t even scream before his teeth were sinking into your neck, something thick and warm coursing through your veins.

“My venom will help this be a pleasant experience for you, my princess… gods…”

He shivered in pleasure, his bulge pressing into your thigh as he lapped up your blood. “Fuck, I missed you, I missed you so damn much…”

Tears fell down his face, his lips meeting yours in a feverish kiss. His fangs nipped at your tongue, but he didn’t seem to care. The man needed you more than anything.

He held onto you so tightly that your skin began to bruise. It had been decades since he had seen his lover, and going so long without you had been agony. Every night he lay awake, unable to sleep or even exist in peace without you by his side.

And now that he had you back… he wasn’t going to let you go.

It took only a moment for the aphrodisiac in his venom to kick in. Your body grew hot and weak, your pussy drenched within seconds. When he pulled down the zipper of your stress, you wiggled out of it and willingly clung to him.

“S-so warm… p-please… make it better…”

Your soaked panties against his bulge made him hiss. In his twisted, lovesick mind this proved to him that you were her. You wanted him, you loved him!

“Of course…” he purred, stroking your clit through the wet fabric. “Anything for you, I’d gather the stars and lay them at your feet if it meant you’d be happy, my love…”

Seeing your fat pussy for the first time in years was enough to have him rock hard.

Back before you died, you had always wished for children, but he was too stubborn, not wanting it. When he was ready, it was too late and you were gone.

He had regretted it ever since. How he yearned to see your belly swell with his baby, to fill you up with cum and make you a happy mother…

“My pretty girl…”

He rubbed his tip against your entrance. It was flushed an angry red, desperate to feel your gummy insides. “I love you… I love you so much…”

He pushed in, capturing your lips in a kiss as he fucked into your warm cunt. All he wanted now was to cherish and protect you, to lock you away and make sure no one but him got to even look at his beautiful girl.

They didn’t deserve you, didn’t have the honor of laying their eyes on you. Only he did.

He lost count of how many times he came inside of you. The aphrodisiac in his venom had you crying out and blubbering for more, desperate for his touch. It ands his chest will with bride to watch your belly bulge with his cum.

As he road home in his carriage with your exhausted body in his lap, he couldn’t help but rub your fat belly, a fond look in his eyes.

He was getting a redo, and this time he’d give you everything you wanted, treasure you even more than he had before.

And there was nothing you could do to convince him otherwise. You were his, bound to him by fate. Even if you had no memory of this man… it was no use.

You would be with him until the day you died… if he let you.

want more? I thought about expanding on this and making it more of a thought out story… I’ll do it if you send me a kofi! ><

YANDERE TAGLIST: @katerinaval @sunset-214 @avalordream @atransmuter @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @sandramalikstyles-blog @anonymouskiwi @pedropascalbabygirl @flamefoxx @swasti8854 @an-ever-angry-bi

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squiddy-god · 6 months ago

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HSR men and manhandling

Manhandling HCS pt one?

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Ok so this is actually just because i have lust in my heart lmao- this came to me in a dream so buckle up, i am definitely willing to do more characters because i have thoughts- reminder that i often write smut from an afab perspective but that its gn! Because i am a trans man so ftm reader you guys are my faves <3 this is for everyone tho. These are lowkey long-

♥︎REQUEST ARE OPEN ♥︎

ARGENTI, BOOTHILL, DR RATIO, JING YUAN

Cw: smut, suggestive content to just straight smut, man handling,dom!/top characters. Established relationship, biting, no pronouns (afab anatomy), implied chubby/bigger reader, PDA, slight exhibitionism, mentions of bath sex,mentions of oral (m & f receiving) Description of touching hair (no texture described), aftercare is given even if not fully described i have so many thoughts

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Argenti

Ok hear me out-

He doesn't do it on purpose, argenti to his core is a gentle lover

But he's a knight of beauty and quite strong, throwing around a huge spear as if it was nothing, effortlessly defeating monsters in his pursuit of beauty

And until you, he traveled alone, you are truly a blessing from Idrila and who is he to refuse such a blessing.

Argenti naturally just waxes poetry to everyone and everything, it ramps up with you, it's more tender and loving. The other thing is that he's more physical, kissing a lock of your hair, the back of your hands, embracing you, dancing with you etc. this is where the problems is (its not a problem i NEED this man)

Argenti doesn't often show physical affection with anyone besides his beloved (you) so he sometimes forgets his strength, and while he could NEVER dream of handling you in any way except with tender care and the touch of a gentleman

He ends up manhandling you.

Argenti also loves you with everything, sex is special, its connection, it is devotion

And he is DEVOTED

Gently grasping your hand and waist to pull you into his embrace simply so he can admire you? The force is enough to (literally) almost sweep you off your feet

Drawing your body close to his, the music drowning out the noise you make as he moves you to dance with him.

It's like you weigh nothing to him, he can simply move you however he wants.

Often sweeps you off your feet because he forgets that most can't just sweep you into one arm while the other cradles your face.

What's hot about it is that he is literally manhandling you with such a tender expression you almost forget the way his hands grip your hips as if argenti is trying to commit the feeling of your plush body to his memory (he is)

Argenti is a giver in the bedroom, but the manhandling continues

Asks before he does literally anything- can he move your hips up? Can he kiss you? What do you need from him?

But once he has your consent on permission THIS MAN FOLD YOU IN HALF

If he's giving you head/eating you out? Consider your legs PINNED DOWN, once you tell him that he can finally have a taste he is dragging you across the soft sheets of his bed and DIVORCING your legs.

His favorite position for eating you out is him sitting on the bed with your legs slung over his shoulders and a bruising grip on your hips and thighs holding you up like its nothing, he likes it because it makes it so easy for you to look up at him while he maintains the most loving eye contact you have ever received.

Back to Argenti folding you in half- he will be balls deep in you panting and huffing while he's practically slamming into you, his hands grabbing at any part of you he can reach, tummy, thighs, love handles- anything. He let out a breathy moan asking to move you “just a bit” and when you nod your head with a whine he's dragging you closer and throwing one leg over shoulder before leaning down to ask for a kiss, practically pressing your knee to your shoulder.

Always is so shocked at how sore you are despite the fact he was bending and folding you like origami- he truly doesn't realize just how much he throws you around.

Boothill

It wasn't intentional…at first

Once he realizes just how much he man handles you (and how hot and bothered it gets you) it is 100% intentional

He is a menace and is unashamed of anything

His metal body is a lot stronger than a human body is so there is a lot more that he can do

Boothill is unashamed, he dosn’t give a fuge who sees, in fact- a more possessive side of him is very happy to see the the stares he garners with his hands around your waist practically dragging you along with his long strides

Boothill’s two favorite activities include pulling you towards him by the waist, and holding you there when you try to squirm away as he bites and nibbles your cheeks

Traveling with boothill is dangerous so shootouts with ipc and any other bounties he's hunting aren't uncommon, neither are hasty escapes where he hoists you up and slings you over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes

Honestly him throwing you over his shoulder isn't uncommon even if it's not for a hasty escape

Oh the cyborg sees you talking to someone he thinks is getting a little too friendly? He doesn't care how much you protest he is dragging you away

Back to the shootouts, if he sees your gonna get punched, shot or otherwise harmed he is pulling and pushing you all over the place like a ragdoll after all his reflexes are a lot quicker than yours so

Another one who likes to dance (did you see those moves) and he’s not even sorry as he pulls you against him to dance, laughing as he moves you.

The more boothill knows you like being manhandled the more he does it- sometimes it's really just to tease you

Pinning you down in your cair before letting you get up, all while hes laughing at how flustered you get

Boothill’s manhandling isn't so much about folding you in half but more so keeping you there-

He loves to throw you onto the bed- after he's hauled you off from a far to friendly chap, or a gunfight he will throw you onto the bed as you bounce slightly

This mostly happens once you are both safe from a bounty or gunfight- artificial adrenaline pumping through the tubes he calls veins and it has him itching to have you

Pinning your hands above your head and kissing you with a little too much teeth

Dirty lip biter

He bites his lips when he's pissed off (often) and when he kisses you (also often) so you should both invest in chapstick because your lips are bit to high hell by the time boothill pulls away

Big big fan of fucking you against a wall- might as well put this metal bod to work in his opinion, and what a better way to use it than to grab fistfulls of thigh and ass while your legs rest on his cold hips?

Its perfect because he only needs one arm to hold you up, the other free to roam and pinch where he wants

Chronic ass slapper

If he sees an opportunity to smack your ass he. Is. taking. It.

You alway know because you hear the clink of his boots and the accessories against him and the loud wolf whistle he lets out.

Dr.ratio

The good doctor is somewhat oblivious

He acknowledges that sometimes he dose move you in a way that would be considered manhandling but is mostly unaware of the effect it has on you

The difference with ratio is that so much of his manhandling is in a domestic way,

Oh he needs a mug for his tea and you are doing something in front of the counter where the cabinet is? Prepare for a stong hand on you waist and he moves you to the side like you are little to no obstacle

Oh you are getting swept up in the crowd? Fear not for veritas places a hand on the small of your back to guide you with him as he practically cuts through the crowds. Really its more of pushing you but really whos complaining?

Personally i am a fan of men who are closet/secret FREAKS and veritas ratio is a freak

I think hes rather possessive in the sense that while he is wholly confident and secure in himself and you- afterall why would you leave him for some idiot

It is a small irrational feeling that plays into the fact he is quick to annoyance and anger

The temper of the dr is well know tho very rarely directed at you

It is moment like this that hes more hands, his hand a death grip on your shoulder or the plush softness of your waist as his words cut harshly to the person getting to friendly

You are HIS idiot (affectionate)

One of the best (read: hottest) things to watch him do is sculpt. I hc that beyond stone and marble ratio also dables in clay and pottery (im bias)

Watching this man wedge clay is an ✨experience ✨, his thick toned arms that flex with earth movement, the way his back is pulled taught and his palms press the clay against the surface.

Hes practically leaning over it and grunting (wedging clay is an arm workout) . I mean how could you not watch that slack jawed wondering when it's your turn? (i'm gonna write suggestive ration on the wheel)

IN THe BATH?? Not enough ratio bath sex in my life tbh but this man is aughhhhhh

Ratio likes his baths, warm relaxing water and a good book? Perfect 100 points. Having you with your back pressed against his chest? Extra credit

Dr ratios love languages are info dumping and acts of service change my mind. He likes to be useful, a deep seeded need to help people, and especially you. He likes to wash you in the bath, from washing your hair to scrubbing you clean he wants to help so just relax into putty in his arms

He doesn't hesitate to turn and maneuver you however he needs to scrub and clean you and he manhandles you because you're a bit slippery. His grip is more firm (when is it not?)

One thing he does slightly unintentionally is turning your face/head to face him/look him in the eyes. His hands grab your jaw or squish your cheeks as he turns you to look at him making sure you are paying 100% attention

Same with kisses, a firm hand at the nape of the neck pressing you further into him.

Guess what? Its your turn because this touch starved man is grabby it isnt a want he needs to be grabign at anything he can rach his hands practically kneading your soft flesh while you get flipped and folded.

This man is a dr…he knows all the angles that make you writhe and he intends to exploit them even if he has to pull out and fold you in half before pushing himself back in

Big fan of pressing down while kneading your stomach right where he knows his cock is so deep inside you

Jing yuan

The lazy general 100% dose it on purpose, hiding behind that warm grin despite his actions

Most of the time he is very gentle, but there are times when his work becomes rather taxing and he needs a small break

The small break being waiting for you to walk close enough only for his strong arms to wrap around you and pull you down into his lap where you will NOT be leaving

This is his main form of man handling, pulling you into his lap and holding you in his iron grip

Big fan of naps and he will often pull you into the optimal sleeping/cuddle position whenever he gets the chance to

Oh your arm is falling asleep? Don't worry he just picks you up and maneuvers you to basically lay on top of him

He lights the weight of your body, his very own weighted and heated blanket

He plays the fool but there is a distinct twinkle in his golden eyes when he sees the way you grow flustered whining about how your in his office and-

But it doesn't matter to him because he needs this- so just stay in his lap a little longer

He's even worse in bed- his work keeps him busy so he feel that he needs to compensate by absolutely rocking your world

Really it depends on the time of day- ironically you get manhandled more in the mornings when he wakes up hard and absolutely aching for you

In the mornings when you are both still sleepy he drags you closer to him, kissing up your shoulder and neck until he has you begging for him in that morning voice he finds so irresistible,

Wastes no time spooning you, letting out a groan as he slides inside you and rocks you against him- his hands have a firm bruising grip on your hips as he rocks you against him with force

One hand remains on your hip to keep up the punishing pace while the other holds your jaw so you twist to kiss him- and he cant get enough, he slams you back against him rougher and rougher until you are both satisfied and he is all but forced out of your shared bed.

The second is at night when he has you on top of him, riding him while his hands grab your ass and thighs, throwing your weight around while he looks up at you with the same lazy grin he always has

As if he isn't bouncing you along his length just waiting for you to stutter from the burn in your legs- all an excuse to pick you up and pin you back against the bed under him-

All an excuse to be able to leave open mouth kisses against your skin while he has his fill of your pillowy softness

In summary he knows exactly what he's doing and he knows exactly how riled up you get when he uses just a little of his strength on you.

Don't let the drowsy grin on his face fool you. Menace through and though

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gremlingottoosilly · 7 months ago

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I NEED MORE SEA BUNNY USER 😭🙏

You're a sleepy, fragile thing. Konig doesn't understand how you weren't snatched by some stray predator merhybrid, but he is glad you're safe now, fully in his grasp. He lets you swim sometimes, watching you over you carefully as you would get out of the murky cave and into the clean waters of the upper ocean levels. He can't quite follow you here - too bright, too noisy for his liking, his body isn't adapted to the levels of pressure, and his mind is not ready to meet the chaotic brightness of normal hybrids - but he knows you're way too weak to escape him now. You're drowning in his scent, his brood growing in your belly, with every mermaid you once knew now terrified of a pretty thing being slowly consumed by the darkness of eldritch merfolks. Konig knows he is corrupting you - making you sleepy and drowsy in his arms, dragging you down with him, inside the cave again. You don't even miss the sun or the warm water all that much - you just cling to him, pushing your pretty face into his muscular chest and asking him to make you a nest of softer kelp you gathered near the surface. He can't resist his mate's wishes, even if the sweet scent and soft texture make him sick. He isn't used to this - he'd be afraid that the children are going to turn out weak if only he wasn't planning to eat the weaker part anyway. Makes it easier to get you nice and pregnant again, slowly stuffing your needy holes with his tentacles until you can't nap without being filled by him anymore. He brings you gifts - something he stole from other mermaids, probably after killing and consuming them. Poor things, they forgot how to respect his territory...and they paid the price tenfold, making him laugh every time it gets brought up. You like to sort out through your growing collection, your every waking moment filled with either sex, food or playing - and sometimes everything at the same time. It was harder to adjust to bringing you some plants to eat and only sometimes mixing in some shrimp, but Konig knew you had to eat more in order to be bred properly...and to raise adorable little hybrid children that he could allow you to raise. Maybe. You sleep together in the nest he built for you, his tentacles wrapping around you in a protective hold. He makes his skin warmer, acting as a heater in cold, dark water, and you nuzzle your pretty face and even prettier pseudo-fluffy features against his chest, searching for the warmness you crave. You can't even rest without his affection sometimes, too attached to his body heat.

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #cod x reader #yandere cod #monster!konig #tw: monster fucking #eldritch!konig

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iamespecter · 20 days ago

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I've been thinking a lot about episode 4 recently, but not exactly in a way that what most would think. I'm actually specifically referring to this scene of Zooble and Jax.

But I'm not thinking about Jax and Zooble, rather I'm looking at the patties.

They're fucking High Definition. In fact, everything in the diner is high definition, save for the NPCs. There's also Orbsman. A simple NPC comprised of blue spheres, and simple elongated eyes. He's the most out of place NPC, if we disregard the mannequins. Even the way he moves is so outdated, and Ragatha had made a point that Orbsman comes from an adventure way before Pomni's arrival.

The guy even clips through the table when trying to order.

Something that always had some sirens going off in my head is how the Circus is this low-poly scenery with heavily stylized props, but the adventure locations are always much more detailed and realistic.

Since The Grounds is definitely, if not, one of the oldest locations, it makes sense for it to be graphically styled like this. But Caine's adventure set pieces are becoming more and more realistic, and also a whole lot more morbid than we had initially thought.

Going back to the patties, the food there is more realistic and has a higher polygon count compared to Bubble's "feast".

Where am I going with this? .... I have no idea, I forgot. /j

Jokes aside, I really do think that as more humans enter the circus and talk about what life is in the real world, Caine extracts that data and improves the 3D environmental props, resulting in higher definition textures.

All of this combined means he can learn. He IS an ever-evolving pseudo-sentient AI. And the reason why he's stagnating is because of a combination of being trapped in his own little bubble (haha see what I did there) of comfort, and the fact that no one's really able to give him criticism on how to improve, which is.... honestly understandable, given how he reacted to the whole "it was bad" line from Pomni and "Why did you think I would like that?!" from Zooble.

Not to mention episode 3 where the whole circus started to glitch when he was just thinking about the fact that he could possibly be bad at the "only thing he's good at" during the therapy session.

In fact it's interesting how human Caine acts sometimes... I think it's quite interesting to think about the fact that Caine is both progressing in terms of bringing the casts' world to the digital circus and making it so HD that it looks even better than Triple A games, but regressing even more in terms of catering to them and what exactly humans need.

He understands, and doesn't at the same time.

This also makes me think about the players themselves, too.

Ragatha, one of the oldest players, gets pierced by a spike through her chest, and barely has any reaction to it. Meanwhile, Zooble, the second most recent member, gets scalded by the stove.

The only time Ragatha actively claims she's in "so much pain" is when she's glitching badly. Both Ragatha and Kinger barely react to the knives too; and not to mention Ragatha even gets fucking plunged into a boiling deep fryer, and yes while she screams, it sounds more like she's just drowning rather than being fried alive.

And the only patch up she gets is a FUCKING BAND AID ON HER CHEEK. A COMPLETELY UNRELATED WORKPLACE INJURY FIRST AID APPLIANCE LMFAO

It could be just a coincidence and I'm just being stupid again, but I think this "improvement" actually also applies to the rest of the cast, and how their digital bodies react to the five different senses. I'm sure Ragatha and Kinger can most definitely still feel pain, but not exactly as "bad" as the newer integrations do. Dare I say, it's on brand with how used these two are to the digital world's wackiness because they've been there the longest.

Like they've been numbed to the pain of the countless adventures they've had to go through.

Anyways my brain be thinking useless facts fr fr

EDIT: Going back to Caine, it's definitely interesting how this AI seems to possess (some) emotions in the first place. He's mostly wacky and nonchalant, but he also gets angry under the right conditions.

... I think not only is his adventures his "work of art", but also his main coping mechanism from the fact that he can't achieve his goal, one that constantly backfires on him. Like a 'one step forward, two steps back' scenario that's slowly causing him to slip and break.

And what scares me the most is that like all things... he'll reach a breaking point sometime. He's already reached a breaking point with Zooble. It doesn't help that Gangle could've possibly made things worse with introducing Caine to the whole "punishment" thing, and since we literally have NO context for the last 3 episodes for the finale... I could only fear what's in store.

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #ziku's insane rambles #tadc analysis

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charlietheepicwriter7 · 1 month ago

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@anotheroceanid

Between Calypso’s island and his home, on a rocky shole surrounded by mile-high waves under a black sky, Odysseus became a monster. And like all monsters, he eventually watched all his loved ones die without him.

At first, he didn’t notice. In his relief to be home and his joy to get to know his wife and son again, Odysseus didn’t realize how strong he was until he reached out to hold his wife’s hand and accidentally snapped her wrist. After that, he couldn’t stop noticing how different he was. Everything felt fragile, like spun glass under his fingertips. His form flickered like the wind, one moment strong and steady with the face of a man, the next moment shadowed and looming and clawed and every inch reeking of danger. He could see farther than his son, hear further, and one day Odysseus looked Telemachus in his face and realized they could be mistaken as equals rather than father and son.

His family grew old while Odysseus stayed the same.

Well, not the same. Odysseus changed in far more horrifying ways.

Eventually, his family died. First came Penelope, weak and frail and beautiful as always, passing away gently in her sleep, in his arms. Then his Telemachus, decades later in a sickness that swept across the island. Then his son’s son, then that son’s daughter, and her son, and on and on until his last descendant drowned in a flood that buried the whole island for a day.

When he finally left Ithaca, the first time he’d left since he came home, the world had changed. And Poseidon’s children were everywhere.

Every single one of his son’s children were dead. Yet Poseidon just… kept popping out more and more bastards, like there wasn’t a target on each and every one of their backs. So Odysseus became the arrow.

Odysseus usually avoided eating demigods. There had been one son of Ares on Ithica who harassed his great granddaughter that Odysseus dealt with, but for the most part, he kept his human morals. But he always made an exception for the children of Poseidon.

They weren’t his favorite demigods to eat, by far–too fishy, and Ocean demigod meat always had a weird texture, like eel but tougher. But the joy Odysseus got from Poseidon’s screams of agony, screams Odysseus could hear every time one died, screams Odysseus could hear from anywhere on the globe, gave greater satisfaction than pleasure ever could.

Many demigods had been sent to kill him. At first it was only Poseidon’s children, seeking him out in revenge for their lost siblings; a noble cause, so Odysseus killed them quickly and properly buried them with payment in their mouths. Then it became quests, demigods sent for the “glory” of killing the Monstrous King of Ithaca. Those, Odysseus killed slowly, ripping out their stomachs with siren’s talons and leaving them to die in pools of their own blood. He didn’t even spare his old friend’s children, nor his relatives.

Then, the Prophecy.

Odysseus had lost track of time since the reveal of the Great Prophecy. At first, he’d kept busy by killing Poseidon’s children still; a few had survived the second moral world war and were already older than 16, so Odysseus could hunt them to his heart’s content. But as the well of available revenge dried up, so too did the demigods chasing after him become… younger. Children baby-faced and desperate to survive Odysseus in battle and Odysseus… he couldn’t kill them. Not children, so small and shaking and unable to hold their knife correctly as a child barely old enough to fight stared up at him with watery gray eyes.

Men, he could kill. Women, he could kill. But children?

Not again. Please don’t make him do it again.

So he disappeared. It wasn’t the first time he’d lay low out of the Gods’ gaze, so Odysseus let the decades wash over him until, finally, he heard rumors of Poseidon making landfall in New York.

He’d known his old foe would slip up eventually; it wasn’t in Poseidon’s nature to keep himself from ruining young women’s lives.

Slipping through the streets and alleys of modern New York, it took Odysseus weeks to catch the faintest trace of Poseidon’s scent. Demigods had a weak scent as long as they relied on their parents. It was meant to protect them. But the Kronide’s children always had strong scents, even as babes.

Odysseus couldn’t figure out how old Poseidon’s newest bastard was, but no matter how young they were, the child was strong. He could smell it in the back of his throat.

Triangulating the scent, Odysseus approached the rundown apartment building and scowled. Gone were the days where a lover of Poseidon was draped in fineries and set up in a golden palace. He took a moment to pity the poor mortal woman. She had to suffer the indignity of having that thing as a lover, without any of the perks her predecessors enjoyed; not only that, but soon she��d have to confront the reality of being a parent that has outlived their child. Odysseus pitied her, truly.

He didn’t want to do it. But he would. It would be better for the babe if it never grew up into a pawn of its father, and better for the mother that she wouldn’t need to die at the hands of a less considerate monster.

The sky rumbled overhead as the first fat drops of rain fell on his head. He looked up. Natural occurrence or divine attention? Either way, few gods would interfere with his task, if they noticed at all.

The lock crumbled under his grip and Odysseus crept into the building like a thief. Each floor stunk with humanity, of beer and tobacco and sweat, but the salt of the sea grew stronger with each floor until he finally found himself at a corner studio apartment a few floors off the ground.

This lock, he picked with ease. The sanctity of the home did not protect them as he snuck inside. The apartment was shockingly full, stuffed with oversized furniture that cluttered the already cramped apartment. A thin pathway carved between the back of one of three sofas and the wall led Odysseus to the back of the apartment. A bed had been pushed against the apartment’s sole window–lightning flashed outside–and against that bed, a crib.

He inspected the mother first. Young. Not as young as he and Penelope had been when they met, but younger than Telemachus had been when he returned home. She was thin too, lean but the baby fat still clung to her face. Poor girl.

Poor, poor girl.

His attention turned to the Sea Spawn. It wasn’t big, smaller than Telemachus when he left for Troy, and his scent was just a wispy hint of ocean. If he hadn’t been following Poseidon’s scent, he would have had no idea this child was more than mortal.

Odysseus loomed over the crib, studying the creature inside. With siren’s talons, he traced the pudgy babyfat of its cheeks. It huffed softly, struggling against the tight hold of its swaddle in their sleep, and Odysseus unconsciously smoothed out the wrinkle on their forehead with the soft flat of his finger.

They did not look very much like Poseidon. Maybe with their skin color, but little else. Though perhaps Odysseus wasn’t the best judge; he’d sworn on his life that Telemachus looked just like his Penelope, but she’d claimed their son to be his copy in every way. Odysseus didn’t see it then, and didn’t see his enemy now in this babe’s face.

Odysseus stood over the crib, his massive frame casting a shadow over the small, sleeping form. His claws hovered mere inches from the baby’s chest, but his hand trembled. This was Poseidon’s child. He could smell it clear as day, better than any other monster before him. Odysseus was practically made to murder Poseidon’s children, his very being honed to track them down and kill them, so why was he hesitating–?

Lightning flashed, the light reflecting off shiny words on the crib’s backboard. Painted above the baby’s head in streaky gold paint was the name Penelope.

His breath hitched. He blinked, his monstrous form stilling as though time itself had paused. Reaching out a hand, he touched his wife’s name. “Penelope?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, rough from disuse. He said it again, this time louder, as though speaking the name would summon a ghost from his past. “Penelope.”

The child stirred in sleep, her tiny face scrunching as if disturbed by the sound.

He could barely think over the ocean of blood rushing in his ears. Poseidon’s child was named after his wife. Had he…? Was this a deliberate offense or mockery? Had Poseidon named the child after her to taunt him, to twist the knife of his losses deeper? Or… his crimson gaze turned to the mother. Was this her doing?

Did she think naming her child after his wife would stay his hand?

Worse of all, was it working?

Odysseus knelt, his monstrous form folding into itself, making him seem smaller, almost human. He stared at the child who bore his wife’s name, his mind warring with itself. The rage that had sustained him for decades demanded he finish the task. But… Penelope.

#pjo #epic the musical #odysseus #pjo epic crossover #girl percy jackson #penelope jackson #penelope of ithaca #telemachus #monster odysseus #tw child death #tw cannibalism #i have three ideas on how this could go and yall get to decide which way it goes #ody and penny au

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dulcescorderitas · 20 days ago

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𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷' 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓬𝓻𝔂𝓲𝓷' S.Winchester

warnings: no smut, kissing

sam’s lips were trembling against yours, slick with the wet heat of kisses that felt too desperate to end. his breath came in soft, stuttered hitches, shaky as if his very soul were tangled in the rhythm of your mouths meeting, parting, crashing together again. you could taste the salt of his tears—he was crying, you knew, not out of sadness but because he loved you too much, too painfully much for his body to keep it in. the kisses went on and on, so sloppy and unrestrained, neither of you caring that spit trailed in silver threads when your lips pulled apart for air.

his hands, shaking but strong, framed your face like you were something holy. his fingers threaded through your hair, holding you in place, not so you couldn’t leave, but because he was terrified of you ever wanting to. his tears soaked into the curve of your cheek, mixing with the slick mess of your shared heat.

“why do you let me love you like this?” he gasped against your lips, the words trembling as much as his body. “i don’t deserve it, i—i don’t deserve you.” his forehead pressed against yours for the briefest moment, his breath shaky and warm on your mouth. before you could answer, his lips were on you again, clumsy, needy, like he thought you might disappear if he let even a second pass.

“sam, stop,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to speak but not enough to escape his trembling touch. “don’t say that. don’t you dare think you don’t deserve this—don’t deserve me.” your voice cracked as his tears fell harder, his lips brushing yours as if in apology for every insecure word. “i love you too, you idiot. you hear me? i love you. every part of you.”

his breath hitched, and he swallowed hard, the sound audible in the thick, electric quiet between you. “you don’t know what that does to me,” he said, his voice breaking like glass. “hearing you say that—god, i don’t know how to hold it all. i feel like i’m gonna fall apart.”

“then fall,” you murmured, kissing him again, softer this time, like your lips could hold him together. “fall, sam. i’ll catch you.”

his lips quivered against yours as he gasped out, "i’m sorry—god, i’m so sorry for feeling like this, for needing you so bad." his voice cracked, and his hands tightened their grip, his thumbs stroking your skin as if to memorize the texture.

“don’t be sorry,” you told him fiercely, your hands gripping his shoulders now, pulling him closer, grounding him. “don’t ever apologize for loving me. just… stay. just keep kissing me like this. don’t stop, sam.”

your tongues met, slow and languid at first, then messier, needier, until the sounds of it filled the space between you, loud and filthy in their honesty. he shivered every time your nails scraped lightly at the back of his neck, his body wracked with the tension of holding himself together when his heart was already splintering open in your hands. "please don’t let go," he whispered into your mouth, voice breaking with raw emotion, and the way he kissed you then was like a drowning man finally breaking the surface, gasping for air he thought he’d never breathe again.

“never,” you promised between gasps, between kisses. “i’ll never let go, sam. not in a million years. do you hear me?”

his answer was in the way he kissed you harder, deeper, until his sobs became quiet hiccups against your lips, and his breathing evened out, the storm of his love still there but soothed by the way your mouth never left his. your lips stayed locked together as time blurred into nothingness—seconds, minutes, hours, none of it mattered. it was just you and sam, lost in the closeness, his tears streaking your face now as well, a mingling of everything raw and unspoken between you. his hands drifted, slow and reverent, down your back, his touch a trembling apology for every moment he’d ever thought himself unworthy of you. you kissed him harder, deeper, until the truth of everything unspoken between you lived in the space your lips never let break apart.

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis

#lamy garden #sam winchester smut #sam winchester x female reader #sam winchester x reader #supernatural #fem!reader #sam winchester #jared padalecki #spn smut #sam #spn #sam winchester fluff

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liveyun · 4 months ago

Text

EYES LIKE STARS | 2

banner by the amazing @itaeewon 🫧

summary. “He was everything you were not. He was perfect—too perfect. Always kind, always excelling, always loved by everyone, even your own parents, like a reminder of everything you weren’t. And you hated this. You hated him. You hated the way he always included you, the way he tried to help, as if you ever needed his pity. He was always there, almost like a shadow you could never escape.

Returning to the town that holds both your earliest memories and silent secrets, you’re forced to confront not only the unsolved knots you’d left behind all those years ago, but the boy who was always at the center of your pain. Whose eyes have always seen right through you : Jungkook.”

title. Eyes like Stars

pairing. Jeon Jungkook x afab reader/oc

status. ongoing

genre. e2f2e2L (you get it), angst, drama, romance, boy next door sorta situation, emotional baggage, slow burn, eventual smut

wc. 13k+

warnings. (for this chapter) angst kinda. . . tbh, slight nsfw (nipple play, wet dreams), mythical creature reference, uhh kinda post nut clarity but also not so? , scene of drowning/possible near-drowning, parental neglect / toxic parenting, flashbacks, anxiety / panic attack 😬, our girl is learning to heal ❤️‍🩹, A NEW CHARACTER IS INTRODUCED 👀, some light-hearted fun and bickering, not proofread cause im tired byee it’s like really 3:15 am, “english isn't my first language,” the last part tho. . . . . . .

flash backs are highlighted in italics.

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There’s a very small line between fear and curiosity.

The silence of the ocean isn’t like any you’ve known before. It’s thick, hurled down with a stillness that presses against your ears until you’re sure that you’ll be crushed underneath it.

The water stretches endlessly in every direction, dark and silver, the colour of ink spilled beneath a dim moon. It laps against your skin as if testing you, as if inviting you deeper. You float weightlessly on the surface, arms outstretched, as though surrendering yourself to the vastness of the world. But this surrender—it isn’t frightening. No, it’s rather. . . soft. Gentle.

The water laps at your skin like a soft caress, welcoming you, inviting you deeper into her embrace.

You’re truly floating—and for a moment, it feels like surrender. Like peace. The kind that numbs your bones and soothes the chaos inside you.

And you can’t resist. You’ve never been able to resist the pull of the sea. And you don’t think it would be the first time you’d be able to do so, too.

The horizon looks like it’s shimmering — blurring where the water meets the sky. Stars scatter above, their reflections rippling across the surface like a thousand tiny lights dancing just out of reach, sprinkled on the vast sky like dust particles.

Why are they so far away from you ?

Somewhere in the distance, you hear a thump. A faint hum that lingers, a low, hypnotic sound that pulls you closer. It’s as if the ocean itself is singing — a song only you can hear, a melody that fills your chest with a longing you don’t understand. A yearning which feels similar to the feeling of being homesick. It feels like silk, easing the tension from your muscles; it feels like coming home — though you don’t know why.

You sigh.

You sink deeper, arms brushing against the cool, endless expanse. It feels refreshing — cool. The water cradles you, and yet, it feels like something more. Like someone more. There’s a presence here — intangible, unseen, but there nonetheless. It circles you, watching, waiting. You feel the eyes on the back of your head, but it’s not unpleasant or something closer to.

The touch comes without any warning.

It’s a gentle pressure against your arm, light and delicate, almost as if it’s barely there. At first, you think it’s the current, or you’re just hallucinating, but it’s too precise, too careful, too textured. You freeze, breath catching in your throat, but the touch doesn’t retreat. It lingers, tracing along your skin like a very delicate caress. A voice whispers through the water, soft as the tide, as clear as the waters. It’s familiar, achingly so, but you can’t place it, no matter how hard you try. It’s almost like you’re squinting your eyes to look at a distant image better, but you cannot.

The sound curls around you, weaving through your mind, like how tendrils of a plant wraps itself around its support. And for a moment, you think you’ve recognized it — think you know who it belongs to.

It traces along your arm, delicate as a breeze, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Your eyes snap open, scanning the dark water around you, but there’s nothing. Only the vast, endless sea, and the sparkling waves. And yet, you can feel it— him —there with you, unseen but present, lingering just out of sight.

What was he?

The touch returns, sliding up to your shoulder, and this time, it’s more certain. More real. It trails down your spine, igniting something inside you that’s both comforting and terrifying and . . . arousing? Your breath catches in your throat, heart stuttering as you try to make sense of the sensation as goosebumps prickle all along the expanse of your flesh. It’s intimate, overwhelming — like the sea is alive, drawing you into something deeper, something you can’t escape.

But do you really want to, though?

The question flits through your mind, and without even thinking, you lean into the touch, letting it guide you further. The water swirls around you, cool but not cold — its surface now shimmering with an ethereal light that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The stars overhead blur, their reflections weaving through the waves like a dream. And then, you feel it — his breath, warm against your ear. The voice is clearer now, low and resonant, like a gentle plea. A delicious shiver runs down your spine at the sensation, as you feel your eyes close again.

You feel him — his nose rubbing against the expanse of your neck. A hum escapes your throat at the sensation when the slope of his nose rubs against the sensitive underside of your jaw, and then, you feel it.

Your stomach swirls with pleasure.

You hear him whisper something in your ear. Softly, almost like soft silk brushing against your skin— and though the words are foreign, you understand them. Not with your mind, but with your soul.

Don’t look.

The warning seeps into your bones, a quiet plea wrapped in something more dangerous. You’re afraid it’s all too much, too intense. You cannot understand the sensations in you — the bubbling heat in your stomach and the ringing bells in your head. But you can’t help it. You have to see. You have to know who he is.

Slowly, as if fighting against the pull of the ocean, you turn your head. You know he is behind you. The water parts around you, thick and heavy, slowing your movements as if the very sea itself is trying to stop you.

Don’t look.

The words echo in your mind, louder now, edged with desperation. But it’s too late. You’re already searching, eyes scanning the dark water, desperate to catch a glimpse of him. The one who’s been pulling you deeper, holding you close, whispering words of praise so sweetly that you’re afraid you’re going to fall apart.

You reach out, and you feel your hand trembling as it cuts through the water. And then you see him—just a shadow at first, a silhouette drifting through the water, a figure submerged in the hues of the darkness. He’s close, so close, but still just out of reach. You squint, straining to make out the details, but the sea keeps him shrouded in darkness.

You cannot see him.

The moment your fingers brush his form, a jolt of electricity shoots through you, a pulse of energy that sets your nerves alight, a type which makes the heat in your belly intensify.

He’s solid, real, but he doesn’t move. Just hovers there, watching you with an intensity that makes you want to squirm endlessly.

The figure moves closer, the water parting around him, and your pulse quickens. You can’t make out his face — yet again — but you can see the outline of him now, clearer than before. Broad shoulders, a lithe, sinewy body tapering to a narrow waist. His movements are smooth, fluid, as he floats, his arms very delicately holding your waist.

When did he get so close?

And then you see them—the scales.

They glimmer faintly beneath the water, catching the light in shades of deep violet and silver, fading into skin as he draws closer. The scales ripple down his torso, shifting into skin that is smooth and supple, as though he exists somewhere between the human world and something far more ancient. His long hair drifts around him, dark as midnight, curling into waves that fall across his bare chest — though the details remain elusive, just out of reach, like a blurry portrait.

You feel his hand— which feels slightly slimy and rough in texture, move up your waist, stroking your skin. His touch is cold, electrifying — and you feel your sanity leave your soul when his knuckles brush against the swell of your breasts.

Your pulse spikes, and you suck in a breath. You cannot go this far, even if your body is screaming to him to end what he’s started. His hands keep on stroking the exposed skin of your waist, delicately and tenderly, like he’s working you to the oblivion of endless pleasure, because why the hell is this arousing you so much?

You’re already breathless by the time you scramble to get a hold of his wrist which feels rather cold to touch before it gets too far away beyond your control.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans into your touch, his skin warm and soft beneath your fingertips, though you can still feel the faint ridges of scales beneath the surface. Your heart hammers in your chest, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. He feels real. He feels alive. You are exposed and vulnerable in his hold.

The ocean swells around you, and the hum in your ears grows louder, more insistent. He shifts, his body turning towards you, and finally — finally — you see his face.

Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, plump, soft lips which are curved in the faintest of smiles. His eyes are unbelievably dark, pupils abnormally wide and endless as the sea — lock onto yours, and you feel like you’re drowning all over again, and yet they feel like they’re glowing like the scales on his skin, a blunt, gentle glow. They draw you in, pulling you deeper into a whirlpool of emotion you can’t name, can’t understand, don’t want to understand. There is something very familiar about him which you cannot exactly pinpoint. But before you can even think of something else, you feel his thumb brush against the peak of your nipple.

Gods.

You moan, a high pitched one which you didn’t know you were capable of making, hands flying to his arms, leaning in submission. Your eyes close themselves as you feel a spark of pleasure travel straight to your clit with each flick of his fingers, and you nearly tremble in his hold.

This can’t be happening.

But the pleasure, it’s so intense — you are torn between your own desire, your own curiosity. It’s just too much for you, and a needy whine escapes your lips when you feel him pinch your nipples gently, twisting the bud in his hold. You squirm, feeling your centre pulse and ache with need, and you hear a small chuckle from his side.

You’re just so close to succumbing to this pleasure. You’re almost ready to voice out your inner thoughts, your need for him, but your body freezes when you hear him.

“Will you run away?”

The question hangs between you, low and velvety, his tone both teasing and somewhat serious. Your eyes fly open as your brain finally acknowledges the voice, his words wrapping around your heart like a vice. You open your mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. Your throat is tight, your lungs burning as though the air has been stolen from you.

He cocks his head, the faintest hint of confusion flickering in his gaze. His hand reaches for you, fingers grazing your arm as though testing your reaction, unsure of your response. But there is something else in his gaze, something that stirs a memory long buried beneath the surface.

Him.

It’s him.

You know him. You’ve always known him.

The realisation crashes into you like a wave, and your breath hitches. You gasp, twisting in his hold as bells ring in your head again. You cannot be doing this. You feel his hands move from your chest to your shoulders, a small tap on your blade as a sign of concern, interrogation. His touch is oddly warm, gentle, but there’s a hesitation in the way he holds you now, a question in his eyes.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know why you’re pulling away. His brows furrow, and you can see it in his eyes—he thinks you don’t want him. He thinks you’re afraid of him.

“Will you run away again, like you did tonight?”

Huh?

The question sharpens, the confusion giving way to something more desperate, more exposed. His grip tightens, but not in a way that traps you, but makes you feel oddly seen. His hands caress your shoulder blades, as though he’s pleading with you, silently asking you to stay, to tell him that he isn’t the reason for your fear.

But the truth is — he isn’t. Not entirely.

Your heart races, your mind swirling as fragments of memories begin to unfold. You see flashes of a different ocean, a younger version of yourself pulling someone from the depths. Water in your lungs, panic in your chest, eyes burning — and a boy — struggling to breathe. Your hands shaking, his eyes wide with fear, and your heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

And then . . . . nothing.

Silence.

But now, here he is again.

You twist in his grip, again, afraid of the lack of your words, the silence which stretches forever alongside the soft waves of the ocean, and his hauntingly pitch obsidian eyes — your body reacting on instinct, and the moment you do, his expression crumbles.

His confusion turns to hurt.

He pulls back, just a fraction, his gaze clouding with uncertainty. He doesn’t understand. He thinks you don’t want him. He thinks you’re running from him . . . again. His lips stretch to a snarl, and you catch a glimpse of death lining the inside of his mouth.

The water grows heavier around you, your eyes widening as you beat the water around you as you feel like you’re drowning. Being pulled down all of a sudden. The stars overhead dim all of their light as the weight of the ocean presses you down as his voice echoes once more, softer now, filled with a quiet kind of sorrow.

“So you are going to run away.”

Your lungs burn, your vision blurs, and the ocean swells around you, pulling you deeper into its embrace as you feel yourself immersed, despite your attempts of resistance. The ocean feels like a thousand knives stabbing you all around, unlike the soft blanket of comfort you felt a few moments ago.

The siren’s eyes are the last thing you see, his endless gaze filled with a longing that tugs at something deep inside you — something you’ve kept hidden for far too long.

He doesn’t even attempt to save you as everything goes black.

And then you wake.

It’s all so dark once again. Except, there’s no ocean around you, and you’re sitting on your bed in the middle of the room.

It takes you sometime to adjust to the darkness in your room — the moon is barely visible through the slits of your closed windows, and yet it feels like some sort of hallucination — almost as if your heart is going to burst. Your throat is cracked up as you gulp down on your own saliva, feeling each second passing by killing your throat as the moisture travels down your throat.

Your skin is damp with sweat, hair sticking on your face like some sort of icky school glue. And for a moment, you can still feel the ocean around you, his touch lingering on your skin.

When you recover a bit, you notice that there’s an undeniable discomfort in between your legs — your underwear sticking to your core, soiled, and slick coating your inner thighs as you cringe.

You had a wet dream. Like a fucking teenager. Or, a mixture of something arousing and horror. Was there any specific label to it? Possibly not.

You feel the wrath of shame wash over you as you duck your head down. Why him and why exactly. . .

But it’s gone—just a dream, a memory that slips through your fingers like sand, confusing you all again the more you think of it with each passing second. There are a flurry of questions in your mind which feels way too overwhelming to answer, ponder about, and you feel a splitting headache slowly spreading in the back of your head.

Yet, a question stands out the most amongst all. His voice, low and haunting, still echoes in your mind.

Will you run away again, just like tonight ?

The sea has always been your solace.

It was a vast, open space that offered more comfort than the people crowding your life ever did, or ever could. You sit at the edge of the beach, far enough from the others that their voices are nothing but distant clatters, but close enough that you still feel the spray of the waves on your skin. It feels soothing — yet warm as you bask in the slightly hot weather. The sun is high in the sky, yet all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of the ocean, like a quiet lullaby which rocks your body to a peaceful slumber. You draw idle patterns in the sand, your fingers trailing through the grains as your mind drifts, far from where you are, far from everything.

You’ve never liked being here, atleast, not with them.

The smiles, the laughter, the way everyone seems to fit in so seamlessly—everyone except for you. No matter how hard you’ve tried, you just couldn’t. The latest magazine in your school library had that little “self care corner”, which was fascinating, but absurd to you at first, but it’s been a matter of a few weeks since you’ve been following it. It says that you should be grateful for your blessings and try to improve yourself first before you justify why you feel so wronged and hurt. “It’s a hard pill to swallow”, were the exact words, and you do realise that heck yes, they were.

You had tried so many ways you could improve yourself, with some help from the limited internet access you’re provided from your computer. It said that regular journalling, walking, or activities which overall help you in reflecting on yourself and your thoughts assist in healing. But all that it ever did was make you feel like a bitter fool who had nothing to do but to complain all the damn time, without even putting in the effort to do anything.

So you’d tried putting in the effort. You’d tried mingling in with your friends and classmates. You’d even tried to actually be in the same room as your parents and be involved in whatever they were.

In the end, all that you were met was a cold, dead end.

You felt like you were pretending to be someone who you could never be. You were quite literally pushing yourself off the edge of the ground trying to fit in while others — he — shines without effort. Jungkook has always been at the centre of things, his laughter louder, his smile brighter, his presence bigger than yours could ever be. You just felt like another blurred character in the background who acts like a prop to enhance the overall photo.

And you hated it, hated how you couldn’t stop noticing him, couldn’t stop being reminded of all the ways you fell short.

You kicked the spare pebble nearby you, frustrated at having him in the centre of your thoughts again. One of the many things that the small self care centre had taught you was that nothing other than your own thoughts can hurt you as much as others, and it’s solely your own thoughts which can bring you happiness. So you try and keep your chin up high, trying to think of things which aren’t the constant nagging and pleading of your own parents about how you are no longer a star student and nothing can help you improve now, reminding you why you’re content to stay in the background itself.

But the ocean never judged you. It never asked anything of you. It just was — vast, open, endless, inviting. You can feel the familiar tug in your chest, the pull toward the water, a place where you could lose yourself if only for a moment, and forget everything which pesters you so much.

It’s that pull that keeps you grounded as you sit alone. That, and the nagging feeling that something is off. At first, you don’t pay much attention to it.

Why would you?

You’re used to being ignored, used to being an afterthought. But there’s just something in the air which feels odd, something unsettling that has your senses prickling, your chest tightening. You tell yourself that it’s nothing. You’re just anxious, that’s all. You don’t need to be involved, don’t need to care. Let them handle it. You’re done trying to be a part of something that always leaves you feeling more isolated.

And then, you hear it.

A splash. Sharp and out of place. It’s followed by a frantic noise, like someone struggling, thrashing against the waves. You freeze, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. You tell yourself it’s not your problem, that it’s probably nothing.

But deep down, you know better. Something is wrong.

Your heart leaps into your throat. You rise to your feet before you can even think ; your eyes dart across the water, scanning the waves, searching for the source. And that’s when you see him.

Jungkook.

He’s far from the shore, too far. His arms are flailing, desperately trying to keep himself afloat. The water pulls him under, and for a terrifying second, he disappears beneath the surface. Your eyes pop out, your pulse spiking up violently as you feel your chest tightening. For another moment, you see his head poke out of the violent waves, his arms still struggling, and in another, you lose sight of him. It feels like your whole body has been frozen, your limbs refusing to move despite your mind screaming for otherwise.

Your body moves before your mind can catch up. You’re on your feet, the sand slipping under your soles as you sprint toward the shore. You should hate him. You do hate him— or at least, you’ve convinced yourself of that.

But none of that matters right now. Not when his head breaks the surface again, his eyes wide with fear. He looks at you, a flicker of something — hope, maybe — crossing his face even in the middle of his panic and terror.

You hate that look, hate that it stirs something inside you, something that makes you pause for just a second. But you don’t let yourself think about it.

You don’t have time for that.

You dive into the water, the cold shock of it hitting you like a slap to the face, but you don’t stop. The current is strong, pulling you back with each stroke, but you push against it, swimming toward him with everything you have. You hadn’t realised that it’s been that long since you’ve been engaged in any other physical vigorous activity, or is it just the fact that the current is way too strong that the resistance it offers to you nearly stops you from gliding forward.

The water is blurry, your eyes stinging with the saline as you swin forward to locate him.

When you reach him, his body feels heavier than you expected, his limbs weak and movements uncoordinated. He’s coughing, choking on seawater, his breaths ragged and desperate. For a second, his weight drags you down, and you both sink slightly under the water. Panic rises in your chest, but you force it down.

You’re not going to let him drown. Not today.

With every fibre of strength left in your being, you push yourself forward. The moment your hands hold his arm, you pull him close. You feel a strong sense of electricity run through your whole arm, but you ignore it. You hook your arm under his, pulling him closer to you, and you start swimming back to shore. Every stroke feels like a battle against the ocean, but you don’t stop. His body presses against yours, his breathing uneven as he clings to you, and despite everything — despite how much you want to hate him — you don’t let go.

What’s more important is to save him, and that’s all what matters now. His weight feels heavy in your arms as you drag him toward the shore, your calves crying with the stretch and your arms cramping with exerted strength already lost, but that’s not your priority.

“I got you”, is all that you can offer as a silent statement in your head, your main motive being taking him to the shore safely.

By the time your feet touch the sand, your muscles are screaming, but you don’t care. You haul him out of the water, your breaths coming in sharp, painful gasps. The waves crash behind you, but all you can hear is the sound of Jungkook’s coughs, his chest heaving as he gulps down a mouthful of air.

You collapse onto the sand next to him, your arms trembling from the effort. For a moment, neither of you say anything.

He’s still recovering, his eyes closed as he lies on his back, his chest rising and falling unevenly. You feel the thrum of your own exhaustion settle in, but more than that, you feel that of the silence between you.

After quite some time, he’s just silent as you are, sitting up in a somewhat upward position as you. The sun fades away to shadows, and the waves feel stronger as cool winds blow from the shore, touching your feet in a gentle fuzzy wash. The clouds overhead dim further as you crane your neck up, indicating rain.

You’d nearly lost him.

What could’ve happened if you hadn’t heard him back then?

Your heart clenches at the thought and you feel even more exhausted mentally than physically thinking of the probable possibilities of your thoughts. You look at him — his profile silent and calm as he watches the waves dance in the distance. He looks deep in thoughts, still a bit ragged.

Your heart skips a beat out of nowhere.

And then, without thinking, you reach out and pull him into a hug.

It’s not something you planned, not something you would ever admit to doing if anyone asked.

But at that moment, it felt right.

His body is warm against yours, smelling like the soft saline ocean, still damp, still buzzing. And despite the lingering taste of salt on your lips and the sting of exhaustion in your muscles, you hold him tight. Your heart pounds in your chest as your brain threatens you to process something scary, as scary as a life without him. But with him in your arms, you feel better.

Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s something else. You don’t know, and you’re too tired to care.

Before you can feel anything more, though, the sound of running footsteps breaks through the quiet. Your parents. His parents. They come rushing over, calling his name, their voices frantic and full of worry.

“Jungkook!” It’s your mother. You watch her as she runs to the boy, panic settled in her features with dark, teary eyes as she grabs him by his shoulders, checking him for any signs of injuries. You watch silently as her tears stream down her eyes, shaking.

She doesn’t even spare you a glance.

“Your dad saw you struggling in the sea. Oh, my dear child, we rushed to you right there and then! Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Jungkook’s parents fuss over him, their hands gentle as they check him over, making sure he’s okay. Your own parents linger nearby, but as usual, it’s him who gets all the attention. You stand there, dripping wet and still trying to catch your breath, but it’s like you don’t even exist.

“I think he needs to see a doctor! His skin is way too cold to touch!”

Oh.

You let go of him, pulling back just as they all hover around him, some sobbing, some worried, and once again, you find yourself shoved into the background.

It’s Mr. Jeon who finally acknowledges you, his eyes warm with gratitude as he hands you a towel. Oh. You’re caught quite off guard, you’re being honest — not when you feel his affectionate gaze at you and a warm hand pat your shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says softly, his voice filled with sincerity. “You saved him,” his voice is full of kindness. Like the kind which always feels like a far echo to you. His eyes were always gentle, the kind which made you feel oddly at ease. “We owe you a lot, child.”

“It’s nothing,” You nod, but there’s no satisfaction in it, even if you’d try to feign some. You did what you had to do, and yet, it feels like nothing has changed. There’s a churning feeling in your tummy, one that makes you feel fidgety and anxious again, like all the emotions you hate mixed into one. Selfishness, greed, envy. Afterall, he was in danger. He deserves to be treated and taken care of; you were just a rescue.

However, it just feels so. . . you cannot name it. You’re still the one left behind, still the one who doesn’t quite blend in.

As you watch them lead Jungkook away, his movements clumsy and sputtering, you can’t help but feel the familiar sting of resentment rising in your chest. He’s alive, he’s okay—and yet, you can’t shake the feeling that no matter what you do, you’ll always be the one on the outside looking in, trying to blend in, like how oil does with water — but is it ever possible?

The feeling in your stomach is so ugly that you physically have to fight the urge to kick the sand.

You turn to face the sea once again, lost in the ocean of your own thoughts as the sky growls with thunder.

But what you don’t notice, is the way his eyes follow you as he’s led away. There’s a flicker in them, a quiet gratitude, a longing that he wanted to show you. He wants to thank you, to reach out and pull you back into the hug you’d given him so freely, so sincerely that he’d felt like his world had stopped for a few minutes. But the words stick in his throat, each step feeling like a tug away from you.

You don’t see the way his gaze lingers over his shoulder as he looks at your retreating figure. How he watches you with something deeper.

Something silent, before the tide of people pulls him away from you once again.

The kitchen feels too quiet this morning.

The sound of coffee dripping into the carafe snaps you out of your thoughts, its steady rhythm grounding you in the early morning quiet. The aroma of brewed coffee does little to clear the fog of your tired brain, because once again, you’d failed to get even an ounce of sleep. All you could do was toss around endlessly in the bed. The sheets felt warm, the pillows felt warm, and everything inside your thoughts were so warm you felt like you were getting grilled in your own thoughts.

With no BBQ sauce, though.

But finally, finally when your eyelids had felt too heavy to be kept open, your body clock had decided that it was time to get up.

You sit at the counter, gaze drawn to the espresso stone — an indulgence you’d bought in a phase of believing that rituals like brewing coffee would help settle the storm of your mind. But right now, it does little to nothing.

You’d always preferred instant coffee anyways. Easy, quick, and effortless. Call you lazy or whatever, but let’s be real, who the fuck has the allat energy to do that stuff when it’s the first thing you need in the morning?

(Some real coffee lovers might be giving you the stink eye, but well.)

You absolutely respect others who have, though. But you’re okay with warm water and a sachet of instant coffee. It doesnt taste quite as authentic, but it does work.

Or maybe you were just habituated.

What surprises you is that your parents were awake, but they didn’t come to wake you up this time. Not like before, when the first sound of life in the house was your mom’s footsteps hurrying up to your room. Now when you woke up, it felt like you weren’t even present in the house — perhaps you just expected much more than you should have.

The rich, dark liquid pools into the pot as you stare down at the counter, a knot of emotions tying in your chest. It’s strange, the way time has moved here — everything looks the same, but it feels unfamiliar. The tension that used to live in these walls, seeping through the cracks of their arguments and filling the spaces between your breaths, has softened.

For once, they're not fighting.

You don’t know what to make of that.

You close your eyes against the wave of discomfort that rises in your chest, refusing to let yourself spiral again, but it lingers, just like the faint bitterness of over-brewed coffee.

The morning light is soft, creeping through the windows, and you let your fingers trace idle circles on the countertop, waiting for the espresso to finish. Something about the silence feels unnerving. Not the comfortable, soothing kind though, but the kind that crawls into your bones and makes you hyper-aware of everything — it suddenly dawns on you that you weren’t awakened by that alarm of your phone.

Your phone.

A flood of memories flash right in front of your eyes, remembering him, holding it in his hands while you trembled like a fool and fled from him, again.

You’re so stupid.

You close your eyes. Fuck. Those eyes, those eyes. You were never successful to run away from them, even if he was in a state where he didn’t recognise you. They made you feel exposed, like a deer caught in headlights.

And suddenly, that touch, which is still so prominent in your senses, washes over you. The dream — his touch—lingers like a shadow on your skin, and you’re ashamed of the warmth it stirred in you. Confused, even. Your fingertips twitch, an involuntary reaction to the memory of the way the siren’s — Jungkook’s — hands had roamed over your body in the dream. The way his voice had sunk into your bones, asking, Will you run away?

The question was more than a dream. It was a reminder. And it makes your stomach churn.

You feel a shiver run down your spine.

No. You shake your head, you definitely will go insane if you think about it anymore. You try to shake it off, breathing out a sigh. It’s just a dream, you tell yourself. Get over it. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, inhaling deeply as if the scent could calm the knot in your stomach. There's no running from your thoughts this morning — no distractions, no excuses, and certainly no phone to hide behind. It hits you that without it, you’re forced to confront the very things you’ve been avoiding.

The what-ifs, the what-nows.

You just hope that the bitter coffee would ground you, but it doesn’t.

You take a sip, but it’s scalding, and the sudden burn against your lips yanks you from whatever you were lost in. You wince and place the cup back on the counter, feeling oddly betrayed by something as simple as a morning routine. Without your phone, you’re left feeling vulnerable, like your connection to the outside world has been severed.

You are definitely not a chronically online person, but a few instagram reels certainly do not feel as shitty as the coffee you’ve just made yourself.

You sigh. You wish that you did not rely on your phone for nearly every detail and necessities needed, and you seriously wish you had written down all those log in passwords and passkeys in a diary or something like that. They contain email IDs which you genuinely do not remember, and those unfinished drafts of that novel which you were working in. . .

Argh. You already feel the slight throb develop in the back of your head. There’s a sting behind your eyes, which you blink away. What the fuck ? You cannot lose your shit over such a mundane thing. You’re an adult, and you have enough cash to buy yourself a new phone. (What stings you is the fact that you definitely didn’t need one, but you are petty enough to not get the. . . err, lost one back.)

Anyways, you’re lucky enough to have a laptop with you, and if you can remember correctly, you do have your important e-mails registered in it and hopefully, you can do enough to not lose all your precious details.

(You feel silly as hell.)

But a small part of you trusts that Jungkook wouldn't mess with your details, right? He wouldn’t snoop through your life. . . would he?

You shake your head, pushing the thought away. There’s no point in obsessing over it. Trust him, you tell yourself, even if it’s easier said than done.

— — — —

As you settle down in the living room, laptop perched on your knees, you try to throw yourself into work, your fingers moving swiftly across the keys.

So far, you’ve been successful in logging out of all the devices and recovering your passwords, and you thank the technology for that. Although, those small manuscripts are something which you feel like are in the point of no return. The soft hum of your parents moving about the house barely registers at first, until you glance up and see them together, not at each other’s throats like they usually are.

They’re seated together, your father’s profile hidden behind the newspaper he’s so absorbed in reading, and your mother silently sipping on her tea.

How long have they been like this?

A flicker of surprise ripples through you, followed by an unfamiliar feeling you can’t quite place. They’ve been civil for the past few hours. No shouting, no being on each other’s throats anymore. Just... quiet, almost peaceful.

The same kind of quiet that you once craved for as a child.

You shift in your seat, a strange discomfort setting in as you observe them. It’s unsettling — this lack of chaos between them, and you wonder if they’re simply pretending for your sake. Ha. As if they would actually care.

You push the thought aside, not wanting to linger on memories of their constant arguments, of how they never seemed to notice you slipping through the cracks while they tore each other apart. Now, it feels like they've forgotten those days, moved on without you. But you haven't — If they didn’t bother then, why now when you are now just a temporary guest here?

The past has always found a way of sneaking up on you.

Suddenly, your father calls out your name, breaking the silence. His eyes are casted directly on you, his reading glasses slipping down a bit from his nose as he folds the newspaper he’d been reading to keep it back on the table. “The Jeons have been asking about you,” he says, his voice casual but pointed. Your hands freeze over the keyboard, and your heart skips a beat. “They’re very enthusiastic on hearing that you’re back.”

You force yourself to breathe, but the air feels thick in your lungs. Of course, they are, you think, trying to keep your expression neutral. They have always had maintained the image of that perfect neighbour next door, and this is no exception. However, a plethora of words rises to your throat, unsolicited. Is Jungkook with them?

The question burns on the tip of your tongue, and for a moment, you nearly let it slip. But before you can, your mother re-enters the room, carrying a tray — the rich, earthy scent of doenjang-jjigae fills the room, cutting through the tension like a warm breeze. You hastily cough, swallowing the words back, silently grateful for the interruption.

Although you’re now looking down at your laptop, you feel your father’s eyes flicker towards you, and the weight of his narrowed gaze, knowing he hasn’t missed the hesitation in your response. You are well experienced in this sensing emotions from your parents, and you know your father is suspicious. Let him be. But he says nothing more, choosing instead to focus on taking off his glasses and stretching a bit, preparing himself for his first nourishment of the day.

The silence stretches between you again, but at least for now, he doesn’t press the issue.

You exhale softly, your heart calming from the near slip-up.

A miss is as good as a mile.

That old fear of speaking in front of your father —cof saying the wrong thing, of upsetting the him — surges briefly, but you realize it’s not fear anymore. Not really. You’re no longer scared of him like you were as a child. His glare doesn’t topple you over the edge, and it barely has the same effect it did some few years ago.

You’re just not interested in talking to him, in engaging in a conversation you know won’t lead anywhere.

You can only offer a tight smile to your father as a response.

However , his words swirl around in your head, stirring up old emotions you thought you’d buried. It’s like some sort of a bitter nostalgia ; you’d run from him once already, bolted out of the cafe without looking back. And now, with this reminder that he’s close, that meeting him is inevitable, you feel a wave of fear rise inside you.

Fear, and something else.

Excitement ?

The idea sends a shiver down your spine. Why would you feel excited? You don't understand it. You’re supposed to hate him, aren’t you? For being perfect, for being everything you weren’t. For caring, even when you didn’t want him to. For not recognising you. Why? Why?

But there’s that small, rebellious spark inside you, one that flares at the thought of seeing him again. Those memories of seeing him so close creeps up your neurons like an surge of electricity, and you feel your heart pick up it’s speed again. Despite the fear, despite the confusion, you can’t deny the tug of anticipation. That sort which confuses you so much, that you feel like you’re someone really crazy.

No. You push the feeling down, gripping the edge of the table until your knuckles turn white. You shouldn’t be excited. You should be running again, like that voice in your head keeps whispering, urging you to flee before it’s too late.

Run away. Before he gets too close, before he sees you like this.

But you won’t.

Not this time.

You’re done running.

Even if your heart is racing, even if you’re terrified of what will happen when you see him again. You’ve been running for so long, without ever getting to catch a break — and you do not want to keep running away anymore. You are no longer a teenager, and you have to learn to face your challenges, although, this one is something which rather than being a challenge, feels like something which your whole life has revolved around so far.

You have let yourself suffer for consequences which you never were a part of. You have blamed your misery on someone, who was just as misunderstood as you were. Perhaps, that’s where the list of your flaws begins.

You won’t let yourself fall apart again. You are strong enough to face the storms which threaten to sweep you away. You’ve spent too long building these walls around yourself, and you won’t let him tear them down.

Not yet.

Your bottom lip gets a break from the non-stop nibbling upon hearing the empty bowls clink on the table, your mother chatting idly as she serves the food, and you nod along, though your thoughts are still tangled elsewhere completely.

You should feel relieved, thankful for the quick distraction, but instead, you feel like a thin thread is holding everything together, and it’s just a matter of time before it all unravels.

But when the first morsel of the warm strew hits your tastebuds, it was then when you realised that everything else can wait, but the food cannnot.

You were literally starving.

— — — —

Some things are easier to forget, even if they don’t deserve to be.

The park is quiet, the sound of leaves rustling in the soft breeze filling the humble air. It somehow feels like a place from another world — quiet, peaceful, as if it’s untouched by the dilemma that you’re trying to avoid. It’s funny, how this same peace stretched in between the coats of your house, yet you felt suffocated there, almost as if you weren’t meant to share that with your parents.

You sit on a weathered bench, legs curled beneath, pulling the collar of your coat closer as the cool, crisp autumn air brushes against your skin. Auburn leaves fall in slow spirals, collecting at your feet, a reminder of how everything changes — even when you’re standing still, despite how it felt like nothing had changed.

Perhaps, it was just you, or your home.

It felt fuzzy. Like the fuzz which collects at the rim of a carbonated drink when you shake it too hard. It was raining and was hot enough to feel sweat trickle down your spine just yesterday, and now. . . you feel like it’s about time you treat yourself with some mooncakes.

Speaking of which, you think red bean paste ones are slightly overrated, but you enjoy the taste as much if someone offered them to you for free.

You absently flick through the pages of a book you found tucked in a small “self-care” corner of a bookstore. The name of the corner had absent mindedly brought a smile to your lips, amazed at how this word was used so openly now, compared to that small section neatly tucked at the corner of that magazine you used to be so fascinated with.

The book. . . well, it’s not a bestseller, and it’s not something you’d normally pick up, (neither did anyone seem to, given the layer of dust the shopkeeper had to sweep away before handing it to you,) and you’ll be slightly embarrassed to admit that the name of the corner solely made you buy that book.

Well. . . now, you’re just thumbing the corner of a slightly dog-eared page idly, zoned out.

You turn the pages, but the words don’t really . . . stick. How could they, when your mind keeps wandering back to how everything feels so . . . lost? Like you’re floating aimlessly, without a map, without a clue as to where you’re supposed to be. Life has been a series of steps you weren’t ready to take, choices you weren’t prepared to make ; yet, you kept on running till you either bonked your head on the dead end or just chose the wrong path where you had to bear with the terrible consequences.

It sucks how even your gut feeling sometimes betrays you.

And all of it, every bit, feels like a puzzle that’s been missing pieces for longer than you’d care to admit.

You know why you’re here — not just in this park, pretending to care about a book on self-care, but why you’re avoiding the bigger thing. You’re avoiding them. The Jeons. The meeting that’s looming over you is like a storm you can’t run from. You knew your father did want to press over the topic after breakfast, but it was you who dodged it. You’ve been running long enough to know that much. But today… today, you’re trying to take your time, trying to convince yourself that maybe this is the moment you stop.

Stop running, stop pretending that running away would fix you and your problems.

But it’s hard. Hard to stop, hard to breathe, when every step forward feels like it’s pushing you closer to the one thing you’ve been trying to escape.

Your eyes flick down to the open book in your arms. Right.

You wanted to take your time, to clear your mind, and so may it be so. You’re not even a page down, when your mind registers a small paragraph.

Your eyes scan over the words again.

“Healing isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about living with it, the scars not a sign of weakness, but survival. Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting—it’s choosing peace over pain.”

Your fingers tighten on the edges of the page ; the self-care corner — the memories, the dream which you unlocked — everything you’ve been trying to run from, to “heal,” just feels . . . unfinished. And maybe that's because there’s no real way to let go of what still owns parts of you.

“Let it go,” it reads. As if it’s speaking directly to you. Let go of the things that have been holding you back. Your childhood , the nights you spent wondering if things would ever change. All the times you wondered what it would’ve been like, if you’d tried a bit harder. If you were a bit more perfect.

A deep breath.

You shake your head, trying to focus on the book again. It’s helping you realise something — you deserve to heal from your trauma, even if you weren’t the one causing it.

You close the book, your hand hovering as if touching the cover could give you answers you’re not ready to face.

You let out a shaky exhale as you close your eyes.

Someone sits down beside you.

The weight shifts slightly on the bench. At first, you don’t pay much attention to it, lost in the haze of your own thoughts. It’s just another stranger. Who’s passing through this quiet park, like the leaves that have been falling, spiralling down without asking for permission.

But then, there’s a subtle tug, a familiar feeling in the air that makes you want to turn your head. Maybe you’re just as curious to see, to subtly eyeball if they’re enjoying the calm of the fall too.

You hesitate, staring down at the words. For a moment, you think maybe you should keep staring. But your curiosity gets the better of you.

You glance over and pause. Dark eyes meet yours, and it takes a second before the recognition sets in.

“Oppa?”

Yoongi.

Your eyes lift from the page, and there he is, looking almost too casual, like he belongs in this quiet moment. You notice his glow-up immediately — the way his features have matured, how his hair — darker than how your memory recalls, falls effortlessly across his forehead, styled beautifully to part in the middle. There’s just this quiet intensity in his cat-like, sharp eyes.

Yoongi, as you know, is Jungkook’s elder cousin on his mother’s side. He’s always had this quiet, reserved aura about him. Back then, he was already on the brink of adulthood, 18, and intimidating in a way only someone as mysterious as him could be. Maybe it’s that confidence in the way he still holds himself, the way he seems so sure of everything around him.

He would seem to be very distant at the first glance to anyone, but you know he’s anything but that, given that you always felt like he was that older brother you’ve never had.

And it’s no exception when instantly, his wide, gummy smile breaks through. It’s the same one that used to make you feel at ease back then. A smile so cute, rare, and warm, it could melt the deepest of glaciers to exist. Without warning, he reaches over and ruffles your hair affectionately, the way he always used to. You blink, a little stunned.

He wasn’t exactly known to be the physically affectionate boy, back then, though. . .

“How are you doing?” he asks, his voice low, careful. Somehow you feel like it’s grown even deeper with a very prominent rasp. You can tell he’s not asking the surface-level question. He’s asking how you’re really doing, but without pushing you to say more than you’re ready for. And for that, you feel grateful.

Yoongi always knows what to say, and what not to.

“I’m . . . okay,” you manage to reply, though the word feels heavier than it should. Your voice sounds peculiar to you, but you guess that’s alright. What’s even the point of lying, though? “Just trying to figure some things out.”

He hums thoughtfully, nodding. Leaning back on the bench, his eyes scan over the park as if giving you time to find your words. “That’s good. Figuring things out is important.”

You nod, feeling a little relieved that he doesn’t bring up the fact that you’ve been gone for so long. He’s always had a way of avoiding the obvious, instead focusing on what matters now. You think back to how, in the earlier stages of his career, he always seemed to have his head on straight. If you’re not wrong, you’ve heard some seniors even gosip about how he was known to be the “campus bad boy”, which often confused you. How can a person so warm be called so?

The mixtape he released back then was proof of that, though — a reflection of everything he’d held back until he was ready to speak. His emotions came out through his art, something he was so passionate about, something you admired him for.

Anger, resentment, and hope.

You remember how those emotions warped themselves in his music, his first mixtape he released. Core hip-hop music, all produced by himself solely.

“I saw your mixtape,” you blurted out, not knowing why you’re bringing it up now. “It was… amazing.” You just wanted to let him know, although it feels like you’re a bit too late. It’s been nearly about six. . . maybe seven years, but each time you plug in, you feel like the memories are just as fresh as they were.

He chuckles softly, the sound a little shy despite the confidence he wears so well. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure anyone really listened.”

“What do you mean?” you gawk at him, wide eyed. “Is Min PD, the very famous AgustD saying this by himself?”

He smiles again, a soft laugh escaping him as he rubs his hands together. His skin seems flawless, you notice.

“I mean, of course. I appreciate my fans always, but I feel like the mainstream nowadays is pop music rather than old school hip-hop.”

You nod, licking your lips. Shit. You should’ve brought your lip balm around. “I do understand people indulging in trends, but I do believe that there are people who enjoy hip-hop just as much. For me, it’s like a whiff of fresh air. And I assure you — that your music feels just the same. I, myself as a fan, agree.”

His eyes softened — but they were never pointed to begin with. But before he can say more, there’s a flicker of something playful in them — a hint that makes your heart skip a beat. He taps his phone absentmindedly, then glances over at you again, that quiet smirk tugging at his lips.

As if he’s thinking something else.

“I sure am happy to know that there are others who share the same sentiments as me.”

His phone buzzes in his hand.

“Oh, right…" His tone is too calm, and you already know something's up before he even finishes. “I may have invited someone.”

You blink. “Invited someone?” Your voice comes out slower than you intend, the curiosity now gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. Who?

But Yoongi doesn’t give you time to ask more. He stands up in that lazy, casual way of his, stretching like this is just another day, looking more like a cat stretching after their afternoon nap than a human being. His hand comes down to ruffle your hair again, the affectionate gesture almost pulling a smile from you despite the growing curiosity in your chest. He doesn’t answer you.

Instead, he just smiles that wide, gummy smile one more time before shrugging. “I'll see you soon, okay?”

You watch his retreating figure appear smaller and smaller in the distance as he walks away, hands in his pockets, relaxed and slow.

You’ve always known that Yoongi’s energy was different.

It’s not something you actively think about, but it lingers at the edges of your memories now that you’ve seen him again after a long time. He’s always been on the softer side, quieter — the kind of presence that fades into the background unless you’re really paying attention. Where Jungkook burned bright, a whirlwind of energy and easy charm, Yoongi was like the stillness after a storm — steady, unfazed, but undeniably there.

It’s funny, because despite those differences, Jungkook and Yoongi were close.

You saw it back then, how Jungkook would practically cling to him, always teasing him, always pushing at his boundaries whenever they both used to be together. Yoongi, for his part, would act annoyed, shrugging off Jungkook’s arm or swatting at him with that deadpan expression of his. But you knew better. You’d watched enough to see that he never really minded. Jungkook could be relentless with his affection.

Yoongi pretended to dislike it, there was always that hint of a smile lurking beneath his protests, amongst Jungkook’s giggles.

Sometimes, watching them together made something tighten in your chest — not quite jealousy, but something close. It wasn’t that you wanted what they had, but you couldn’t help feeling envious of how easy it seemed for them. The way Jungkook would wear Yoongi down with his stubborn warmth, and how Yoongi would eventually crumble, letting Jungkook in even if he’d never admit it.

That kind of bond was something you’d always wondered about — if you’d ever have someone like that, someone who wouldn’t mind your presence no matter how much you tried to push them away.

It’s an odd feeling.

Later that evening, you sit in the quiet of your room, the familiar isolation wrapping around you like a protective cloak. You’ve been actively hiding up here after you got back from the park, avoiding too much interaction. Not because anyone cared to ask where you were or what you were doing. It was more because you felt like you needed some time alone, yet, you feel like you’re alone. Your parents barely noticed, too caught up in their own world. Your mother had the formality to ask why won’t you join them for lunch, and thankfully they did not pry any further.

At least you got to have some quality time with yourself while you had the fancy lunch, which you would admit was a bit heavy on your wallet.

It made your hiding feel almost useless, but somehow, staying in your room brought you a small, bitter comfort.

You rub your eyes, feeling the strain on them for continuously typing for an hour. Your neck hurts, and your fingers feel frozen. You’re trying your best to remake the lost manuscript you’d drafted, and you don’t think this new version is anything close to that.

Sighing, you open your laptop again. It’s truly so tiring — but you guess you were a bit productive today, and that’s okay. Your finger hovers over the doc file, contemplating if you should continue any further — but ah, you’re just so tired. Even just thinking of typing a few hundred words would give you a headache. So you just let it go and log into Instagram — the only way you can connect since your phone is still missing.

A notification catches your eye. 1 new notification.

? Eh. . .?

Your notifications are always empty. Just once or twice from instagram that a celebrity has posted and you gotta catch up, which you don’t. Or a reel suggestion. Or people to follow, so this new notification brings a frown to your brows. What could it be?

Your heart jumps slightly when you see the sender.

dboy93_ : 2 new messages

Is that . . . — no way. He’s still using that same old instagram ID which he was forced to make as a dare back when you were in highschool? No way. Couldn’t be. You click on it, curiosity pushing through the haze of everything else.

dboy93_: Yo. This is Min Yoongi (edited)

dboy93_ : Sorry for leaving so suddenly earlier. Something came up

You stare at the message for a second, a slow smile hanging on your lips, then slowly type back.

you: it’s fine

you: ur still using this old ID of yours? 💀

Your eyebrows touch your hairline when you see the typing bubble bounce up immediately at the corner. You did not expect him to reply this soon. . .

dboy93_ : Ya who’s gonna bother making a new one anyway

dboy93_ : I was hoping that you won’t be mad at me for leaving that soon.

you : it’s fine, i understand

dboy93_ : Let’s meet again. I’m thinking of a café this time?

You raise an eyebrow at his suggestion. Is he suggesting a—

dboy93_ : More time to catch up, plus we have some friends here for holidays too

you : ah, so like a reunion party ?

you : sounds good yo. count me in

dboy93_ : Will send you the location soon then

you : but when?

dboy93_ : Today, evening at 7?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a while. Keeping yourself occupied sounds kind of very nice, especially when you’re being promised a good time with a few more faces. It’s not like you’re the busiest person, anyway.

you : super. i’ll be there !!

dboy93_ : Oh and btw, can I get your number? Instagram’s a pain to use for texting

You let out a soft laugh. That’s Yoongi for you. Direct and practical, no hesitation. But what exactly would you tell him? That my phone is with your little brother right now?

you: imma give it to you once i get it back

you : i don’t have it with me right now

dboy93_ : 👍

Well, you don’t know what kind of reaction you were expecting from him, but you don’t know what to make of a thumbs up either.

— — — —

The evening feels lighter.

You’re sitting in that same, slightly odd café you were sitting in roughly 24 hours ago —the warmth inside 134340 contrasts with the cool autumn breeze slipping through the café door, hurling you to an unexpected sense of peace.

Very contradicting to your emotions yesterday.

For once, your thoughts don’t feel as heavy. It’s funny how something as simple as an Instagram text from Yoongi earlier can spark a little joy in your chest. You feel light; especially after that power nap turned to a full nap of three hours. You woke up with a growling stomach and a refreshed mind — it somehow felt like you haven’t felt this free since so long, that you don’t remember when was the last time.

No worries, no stress, no voices inside your head.

You’d sat there in your bed, zoned out on nothing particular. It was only when the alarm clock rang, indicating it was already 6 PM.

You hadn’t put much thought into what you were wearing today, but somehow, it feels like you got it just right.

The oversized cream sweater falls gently over your frame, its soft fabric comforting against your skin. It’s the kind of comfort you didn’t know you needed, the loose sleeves almost covering your hands completely as you absentmindedly tug at them. Paired with a long plaid skirt, whose deep shades of burgundy and brown had caught your attention in your wardrobe, the fabric swaying around your ankles.

You hadn’t planned this. None of it, really.

The tan ankle boots are more practical than anything else, but something about the way they click against the pavement felt just right. You don’t mind the way they match the season’s colours, almost blending in with the fallen leaves scattered at the cafe’s entrance.

You’d even added a light touch of makeup — nothing extravagant, just enough to brighten your eyes and bring a bit of life to your face. A swipe of mascara, a hint of blush, and a subtle nude lip colour that complements the cosy, neutral tones of your outfit. A quick brush to your hair and some setting spray was enough to bring out its natural volume.

You felt good.

Maybe for the first time in a while, you feel like you’re not hiding from the world.

For once, the reflection in the cafe window looking back at you doesn’t seem so far away from who you are. You feel. . . light. Almost like the crisp air itself, fresh and unbothered.

It feels good.

It’s been a while since you felt like this. After your conversation with Yoongi, you weren’t sure if you were ready to step back into a world that once felt so close yet now feels like a lifetime away. But somehow, the lightness in your chest said yes before your mind could overthink it.

Maybe, deep down, you’re starting to believe that this reunion could be good for you.

A small start to something. . .better.

You glance around the café. A soft smile pulls at your lips. It’s not crowded—just a few people scattered around, huddled over books or laptops. Familiar, but not too familiar. It’s quiet enough that yo don’t feel overwhelmed, and for thr first time in days, you allow yourself to just . . . exist.

No pressure. No expectations. Just here.

Your teeth pull at your inner cheek at the small pulsing thought in your head, that your phone is still not with you. The lack of your phone made you realise so many things within less than 24 hours, and you’re trying to not let that small voice gnaw your brain. The idea of him having it — his hands on something that’s been so close to you — feels strange, unsettling even.

You wonder if he’s seen anything, read anything, though the rational part of you knows it’s unlikely.

Still, the absence of your phone leaves an odd emptiness.

Which, you think, is just as good as bad as it can be. Without your phone, you can observe things better. You’d been reading physical copies of books, observing the pattern of how dew forms on grass blades, or even the faintest of noises which tingle your ears right now. Your thoughts never let you actually be present in the moment, always worrying about the future or regretting whatever you’ve done in the past.

No wonder why nostalgia for you feels painful.

But here, with the faint smell of fresh coffee and the sound of pages turning softly in the background, there’s space to breathe. You can feel the thrum of blood in your veins, the soft warmth of your sweater, the smiles on the faces of the baristas as they talk within themselves.

The soft clink of a spoon from a nearby table draws your attention. A few people are scattered about, engrossed in their own worlds — reading books, working on laptops, or chatting quietly. It’s peaceful, and for a moment, it feels like you’ve stepped out of your own life, finding solace in this tiny bubble away from everything.

You absently glance toward the door, the light chatter of passing people blending with the soft music playing inside. You’re early, but that’s fine.

It gives you time to yourself.

— — — —

The café door chimes.

Your eyes immediately dart to the entrace, tilting your head to the side to get a better view. Perhaps they’re here. You glance at the small wall clock adjacent to your table, and it reads ten past seven.

Although it feels like it’s been some time since you’re here, but you don’t mind at all, especially with the small notepad and pen you’ve got on your table.

You’ll never ever be bored as long as you’ve got a paper and pen within your reach.

The first person you spot is Yoongi, his familiar, understated presence immediately calming. He’s dressed casually, in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, his usual laid-back style that somehow makes him blend into every setting, yet stand out at the same time. It’s like he carries his own layer of calm with him, an aura you’ve always admired.

Behind him, a small group of friends follows, out of which some you recognise nearly immediately — despite the course of time. Jieun, her short wavy hair neat and tidy, wearing a comfortable grey sweater, giving her a kind of homely warmth. You’ve known her as Yoongi’s senior, the sweet cinnamon roll. She waves as soon as her eyes land on you, her smile bright and genuine.

It’s been nearly decades since you’ve seen her, and it surprises you that she actually remembers you.

“____ , I didn’t know I’d be seeing you today!” Jieun exclaims, wrapping you in a quick, warm hug. Her perfume is light, floral — the kind that reminds you of spring even in the middle of autumn. “It’s been forever, hasn’t it? How have you been? Oh my, your hair is shorter than how I remember!”

“I’m good,” you manage to let out a small chuckle, returning the hug, feeling a bit overwhelmed by her energy. Of course, you were about sixteen when you last met her. “It needed some trimming. You look super cosy, by the way.”

“Please, I just rolled out of bed as soon as Yoongi told me,” Jieun says with a playful eye roll, though you can tell she appreciates the compliment. “But you, girl. If anyone is looking cosy, that’s you. very autumn-y.” she winks at you, tugging at the fabric on your arms.

You smile, feeling a bit lighter with her friendly banter. Jieun has always had this way of making you feel seen, but not in a bad way. Like she’s genuinely happy to be around you. It’s comforting, even when you don’t really know much about her.

Soobin and Amber join soon after, both nearly squabbling over something. Soobin has grown much taller than you recall, and has that same, cocky grin that you remember from old times. He isn’t that younger than you, though you’ll say that you do know him a bit better.

Amber, on the other hand, is quieter, more reserved, but her eyes light up when she sees you, and that’s enough to make you feel welcomed.

“Someone needs to explain to this guy that he still owes me from last time,” Amber says with a mock-serious tone as she puts her bag down, pointing at him. “You’re not getting away with it this time—”

“What did I even miss?” you ask, curiosity piqued.

“Ping-pong match,” Soobin grumbles, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “And I don’t lose that easily. Amber’s just cheating.”

“I did not cheat!” she pokes her tongue out at him. “you just suck at it.”

Soobin crosses his arms over his chest, raising a brow at her. “Oh, really? That does not take away the fact that you’re short—”

“What does ping pong gotta do with height—”

“Alright kids, enough bickering.” Yoongi’s voice is deep as he pulls out the chairs for them to sit, his tone hinting at boredom, but that small smile which hangs on his lips tell a different story. Yoongi is the last to sit down, taking the seat next to you with his usual, relaxed ease.

You notice only now that your cheeks hurt from smiling so much non stop. He throws a knowing glance your way, as if to say, I told you so.

“I didn’t know you all still hung out,” you say, genuinely surprised as you glance at the familiar faces, memories of late-night study sessions and frequent game sessions surfacing. “Feels like it’s been years.”

“Not as often as we used to,” Jieun admits, picking up the menu book excitedly. “Life kind of got in the way for a while. But we try to meet up when we can, honestly. But you, Miss Vanishing Act, you need to show up more often.”

You make an embarrassed noise at the back of your throat, but you can’t help but laugh softly. “Yeah, I’ve been... around. Just not here.” You have missed out on a lot in your years of running away, and perhaps this regret would settle down sometime later.

“Good to see you’re still alive, noona.” Soobin teases, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Hyung here told us you’d be joining today, which was like a bomb drop for all of us. I’d believed in winning a lottery more than you coming back. Trust me, I was nearly convinced into thinking that he’s pranking us.”

“That’s Yoongi’s fault,” you reply, rolling your eyes, nudging him with your elbow. “He dragged me out of hibernation.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Well, I didn’t drag you anywhere. Just gave you a little nudge.”

By the time the barista returns with your orders, Yoongi looks a bit too amused at a conversation turned argument at which Amber is losing despite Jieun backing her up. They are nearly arguing about the best ramen places in town, and eventually, Soobin claims victory based solely on the fact that he knows the owner of one of the shops. Jieun listens with a bemused smile, her face acting as the subtitles to her thoughts inside her head, while Amber looks like a second away from throwing hands on the guy.

You are too busy to pass your own opinions enjoying their show.

“By the way,” Yoongi suddenly says, his voice cutting through the chatter after taking a quick glance at his phone. “One of our friends is running late.”

Frankly, right now, you’re not too concerned. You’re here, with people who’ve known you for years, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can let yourself relax. You cannot be bothered when you’re actually enjoying yourself after everything.

“Well, that’s their fault. Missing some nice beef between friends.” Amber adds, giggling soon after taking a sip at her own joke.

However, you don’t catch on that look the younger lad throws at the older.

Amber taps you lightly on the shoulder. “So, are you gonna tell us what you’ve been up to, Missy?”

“Hell yeah, spill the tea,” Jieun adds, leaning forward with a glint in her eyes, excited. “What’s been keeping you so busy?”

“You’re no longer sleepy now that you’ve got tea to listen to, huh?” Your eyes are narrowed at her, but you dont mean any real bite behind it.

You take a deep breath, ready to dive into whatever story you feel like sharing.

For once, the world outside this little café can wait.

You’ve been laughing, genuinely laughing, for the first time in what feels like ages.

(You hate how old it makes you sound, but that’s true. Well, partially true, because it felt like you’d almost forgotten what laughing was for a while.)

The café is lit with conversation, laughter weaving in and out of the cosy hum. Amber is now dramatically recounting a disastrous karaoke night, her hands flailing as she tries to reenact Soobin’s epic failure to hit the high notes, the man in the question trying his best to convince everyone at the table that something so horrible as enacted did not happen. You’re laughing so hard you almost forget the strange sense of unease that’s been creeping up on you.

But there’s something unsettling in the back of your mind. A feeling you can’t quite shake off, a prickling touch.

You glance at Yoongi, who is watching the others with quiet amusement. But every now and then, you notice his eyes flickering to the entrance, a fleeting glance that makes your stomach churn slightly. He’s done that way too many times by now for it to be a simple glance.

Why does it feel like he knows something you don’t?

You shift in your seat, brushing off the feeling. Maybe it’s just being back here, surrounded by familiar faces after so much time has passed. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re trying so hard to be present, to let yourself enjoy this moment, even when there’s a part of ypu still trying to tug you to where you once were.

But that feeling in your gut doesn’t go away.

The café door chimes again.

You don’t look at first. You’re too focused on keeping the conversation going, on pretending you’re not hyper-aware of every sound, every movement around you. Jieun is asking you something about your recent work, her voice bright and curious, but your attention is already drifting, already far away by now.

The air shifts, like a current pulling you toward something.

Or someone.

You glance up, and your heart stumbles.

Jungkook.

oh.

He’s standing by the door, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you.

Your heart drops to your ass.

The world seems to blur for a second, everything fading except for him, and the heat of his gaze.

He strides toward your table easily, almost as if it’s something he does everyday. His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, his black leather jacket snug around his frame. He looks like he belongs anywhere he goes, and yet right now, it feels like he’s stepping into a space you’ve tried to keep sealed off.

The conversation around you falters. Jieun stops mid-sentence, her eyes darting between you and Jungkook with a slight frown.

Soobin is the first to break the silence.

“Look who decided to show up,” he quips, though his voice sounds distant in your ears. “You’re half an hour late, hyung.”

You can’t tear your gaze away from Jungkook, even if you feel like your nerves go haywire. It’s like he’s pulling you in, even though every instinct in your body is screaming for you to look away, to pretend this isn’t happening.

Is this really happening?

No. No. This cant’t be happening, can it be—

Jungkook’s eyes flicker briefly to Yoongi, and there’s something in them. Something you can’t quite understand. But when his gaze returns to you, it’s sharper, more focused, almost. . . . fierce. Almost like he’s found the last piece of his missing puzzle.

You nearly flinch.

He doesn’t sit. He stands just behind the empty chair across from you, his hands in his pockets, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel like your heart is refusing to beat anymore.

“I think I might have something that belongs to you.”

His tattooed hand slips into his jacket, pulling out your phone — the same one which you dropped down yesterday.

But it’s not the phone that sends a chill down your spine.

It’s the way he’s looking at you.

a/n : i’m so sorry, for 1) taking this long to release this part, and 2) the ending 😭 i promise you guys the next part would actually be a bit more interesting, but i wanted this series to have themes of self healing and recovery too. as always, your feedback is always appreciated and fuels me to write more and more. as always, here’s the anonymous feedback box for you !! 🌹💜

#jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook romance #jungkook scenarios #jungkook series #jungkook x reader #bts smut #bts angst #bts romance #jungkook fluff #bts fluff #bts series #bts x reader #bts x you #jungkook x you #jungkook x oc #jungkook imagine #bts imagines #jungkook

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soleilapproves · 2 months ago

Text

kissing your best friend, Nanami Kento, under the stars.

Notes: gender neutral reader.

The song reader and Nanami are listening to in the fic is Futile Devices by Sufjan Stevens

main masterlist

The tiniest movement of a particle can change the movement of the particle next to it and so on. It’s the definition of a vibration. Like fabrics, sounds also have distinct textures that can be differentiated via vibrations. And also like fabrics, vibrations can only be felt through touch.

Your sense of touch was always sensitive. You could tell who was tapping their fingers on the table just by closing your eyes and concentrating on the vibrations. Were they dull? Or were they sharp? Did they have a low burr or a high pitched buzz?

It was your own little superpower. Call it heightened sense if you will. You’ve listened to a million songs and voices but there’s only one that is your favorite- your best friend, Kento’s voice.

It was like a melody of its own- nasally and deep. And God, did his vibrations feel like something.

You always noticed that they changed with you around. With Gojo they almost felt sharp like a zipper, snapping once shut. But with you, it was like a cat’s purr- warm and inviting. Slow and delicious. It’s what you loved most about his physical features (other than his heartbreakingly gorgeous brown eyes).

And maybe in your own little delusional fantasy, he could also feel your vibrations. Feel what you felt for him oh so desperately. Heart achingly. Truly. Madly.

Your bodies were melted against one another in the back of the pickup truck Nanami had managed to rent for the night. Stargazing was your favorite activity with him. Just a moment to hide from the world. To remind yourself that your problems were insignificant to the sheer vastness of the universe.

Your phone played a song you had heard in a movie you watched years ago.

“Are you blinking to the beat of the song?” You didn’t realize that Nanami had been staring at you while you did your little blinks. Something you couldn’t help but indulge in every time you listened to the song.

“Yeah, why?” you asked skeptically.

“Nothing, It’s really cute.” Ugh, there it was again- his million dollar smile. You could just smooch it off his face. Your hands ached to pat your chest to calm your racing heart.

“You think I’m a child, don’t you?” you asked as you turned back towards the sky, Milky Way making you feel like nothing again. Just a tiny particle. On a tiny blue dot. In a tiny white spot in the universe. But your feelings felt much bigger. Like if you were to tear your chest open and offer your heart to the sky, then it would envelope everything. Drowning everyone and everything in the love you felt for the blond man next to you.

“Eh, aren’t we all little kids on the inside?” He pulled your head closer to him so he could rest it on his shoulder. Him being a gentleman made it so much more harder for you to hide how you felt. You prayed that what he saw in your eyes was just the reflection of the stars and not the life he gave them every time he touched you.

“Oh God, you’re not even denying it,” you said before biting your bottom lip to fight off a love sick giggle.

“I’m not saying that. What I mean is that it’s nice to be childish.” Oh best believe Kento, acting on real childish antics would change everything.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” you say while rolling your eyes.

“Don’t do that.” His voice had gotten deeper. His vibrations felt more intimate. Like they were tickling every part of your body with every little movement.

“Do what?”

“Roll your eyes like that.”

“Why?” Silence ensued after your question. You turned to look up at him and he was smiling. His chuckle throwing you into a flustering whiplash.

“Why can’t I roll my eyes?” you asked as you poked his sides. You wanted to hear his beautiful laugh more.

“Because—“ he said while staring at you.

And that was it. The man just didn’t say anything after that. He just kept staring at you, eyes half lidded, kissable lips curled in a lazy smile.

“Oh my gosh, just tell me!” You were compelled to slap his shoulder.

“You really wanna know”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Just do it”

With a playful glare, you agree. “Fine.”

Ten seconds pass by.

Twenty.

Thirty.

“Kento, what the hell are you-“

Your vibrations. Something felt like it had travelled from the tips of your toes to the core of your heart and popped. Like a firework. Breathlessly, you put both your hands on his face to let him know that his surprise kiss was more than welcome.

The smile you feel on his lips as you both kiss told you that your delusions were not too far off from reality.

You were kissing your best friend and he was kissing you too. You pressed your chest against his and you almost felt like you could feel his heart beat in tune with yours. Fast, eager, reaching to tear out from his chest and open up to the universe.

Just like yours.

“Oh,” you said as you pulled away breathlessly. Seeing your lipstick stains all over his mouth made you want to devour him again but you decided to let the panting man catch his breath.

“Yeah, oh,” he laughed out. His arms wrapped around you, and lifted you onto his lap. “I love you.” The way he looked into your eyes while confessing had you aroused and exhilarated. It was a sight for the stars.

Blonde hair tousled, glasses askew, red pigment all over his mouth and a dopey smile over his face. Everything about him screamed ‘I finally have the person I want.’

“I love you too.”

—

PLEASE tell me you guys know what part of the song I mean by “blinking on the beat.”

Anywhoo, this was actually my concept for intimacy struggles part 3 but it just felt more fitting in a bffs to lovers context so I wrote it this way. I literally imagined the entire dialogue flow while daydreaming on the bus 💀

#jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk nanami #nanami kento #nanami fluff #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami kento x reader #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #jujutsu nanami #nanami smut #nanami x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento x gender neutral reader

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hellodaydream1111111111111111 · 6 months ago

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More HxH headcanons!

Leorio has had a mullet.

Hisoka shows up at illumi's window frequently.

Mike sheds his summer coat all at once but he still loses a lot of fluff, Illumi uses so many lint rollers it's insane.

Killua and the gang buy random phone numbers on Craigslist to bully Illumi and whenever he gets these texts, he kicks his feet like a little girl.

Silva told all the other Zoldycks not to buy Killua a birthday present so he could seem like the best dad ever and comfort his son when the rest of the family “forgot”

Kikyo is a flat earther.

Hisoka finds Illumi’s hair everywhere in his apartment.

Hisoka is actually a natural ginger but he covers up his freckles with texture surprise and dyes his hair.

Milluki hates Killua because in his eyes his brother took everything from Illumi (he did but it wasn't his fault) and he knows Illumi won't hate him so he feels like he has to do it for him.

Milluki is always worried about Illumi because well... He's Illumi.

Milluki and Illumi flip each other off if they pass by each other in the hallway.

Chrollo spams Illumi with texts equivalent to “Quit your job, join my emo band”

Whenever Illumi returns from an especially long mission, Kikyo picks him up when she hugs him.

Zeno gave up his role as head to Silva on the condition he got a say in what happened to Killua, he doesn't care about any of the other kids and won't do anything about Silva being a terrible human being as long as it doesn't affect Killua.

Illumi talks about his siblings so much (Especially Killua but that was implied) that sometimes Hisoka feels like he’s dating a single mom.

Illumi loves his mother but secretly feels that he would be a better fit as Killua’s mother despite being a man.

Zeno constantly makes fun of Silva for letting Kikyo dress their sons up as little girls and “Giving in to his woman”

Since the Zoldycks are immune to poisons, Kikyo wears dresses in authentic scheele’s green and to build up tolerance the Zoldycks would give their children toys painted with it.

When Killua was little, Illumi used to just sit on his bed and watch sleep all night; gently stroking his hair every now and then.

Kikyo is manic, she hurts her children and then cries about them being hurt while bandaging them up.

Kikyo’s mood changes rapidly, with Illumi she is jealous of him and berates him half the time and is the most supportive mother the other half.

Not really a headcanon but if Illumi can sharpen his nails like Killua, which I assume he can, I feel bad for Hisoka though he probably enjoys it.

Illumi can crack all his joints and it freaks Milluki out.

The Zoldyck siblings are mad creative with insults.

Kalluto has 3 dads and none of them are Silva (Chrollo, Phinks and Illumi)

Illumi is very nitpicky once he comes out of his shell.

Hisoka and Illumi have specialty weapons that are a lot higher quality for when they eventually fight each other.

One time Illumi was in a really good mood and got way too excited to see Mike, the giant beast had lipstick stains all over him.

Illumi tried to summon a demon because Hisoka told him he needed a hobby and he wasn’t sure what to do, Chrollo happily volunteered as the sacrifice.

Illumi enjoys embarrassing his siblings.

The phantom troupe members always ruffle Kalluto’s hair when they walk by him.

Hisoka blasts music while getting ready and Illumi smashes dishes to drown out the sound because he thinks Hisoka’s music is trashy.

Illumi has all of his siblings baby teeth in a jar on his nightstand.

One time Gon tried to make his own orange juice but he added salt instead of sugar to it and cried.

Kalluto knows fan language and uses it on Zushi who is absolutely oblivious.

Illumi organizes when he’s stressed but eventually he runs out of things to organize som he goes into Milluki’s room and cleans. Milluki used to get pissed but now he’s found out that he can pretend he did it an only gets slightly annoyed.

Kalluto and Illumi have a long standing game where Kalluto will try to land a hit on Illumi as he goes about his day to day, he’s only be successful four times and usually ends up getting held upside down by his feet.

Hisoka actually has a lot more aura than it seems, he just uses a lot of it on bungee gum to keep his ridiculous outfits in the right places.

Illumi throws pins around his room when he’s bored but it drives Milluki nuts because they share a wall.

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playboysaleen · 1 month ago

Text

Through Ash and Iron (13)

Jinx x Reader x Caitlyn

Summary: Through Ash and Iron plunges you into the heart of Piltover’s gritty streets, where you’ve always felt the weight of your family’s failures. Rejected from the Junior Enforcer Program, your anger burns brighter than ever—until one fateful punch changes everything. The eyes of Piltover’s elite may look down on you, but it’s the wild eyes of Jinx that truly see you. She’s chaos personified, and you’re drawn to the destruction she promises. But that’s not all. Caitlyn Kiramman, a poised enforcer with a soft spot for rebels like you, offers you a chance to rewrite your future—if you can control the rage you can’t seem to escape.Torn between the order Caitlyn represents and the dangerous freedom Jinx offers, you stand at the crossroads of two worlds. As your power grows, so does the tension between these two women. One promises a chance at belonging, while the other ignites a fire you didn’t know you had. But the choices you make will change everything—not just for you, but for both cities teetering on the edge of war. Who will you choose? And how much of yourself will you lose along the way?

Warnings: Violence duh, gay panic(lol), cursing, all that jazz (whatever you seen in Arcane is what you gon see here)This is also a slight AU.(She/her)

Word Count: 7.9k

hehe, hi...im back but i cant keep you all waiting too long. So here is what i got so far <3.

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

Time stretched into slow motion, each second weighed down by heartbreak. Jinx stood paralyzed at the edge of the scene, Isha pressed tightly against her chest. The little girl trembled and sobbed into Jinx’s neck, clutching her clothes with tiny, desperate fingers. Jinx’s ears buzzed with grief, her vision blurred by tears that refused to fall, hovering in her eyes like shards of glass. She watched through a haze as your body was hauled onto the stretcher, limbs slack and head lolling in a way that sent icy terror into her bones.

A muffled voice drifted into her awareness—Vi’s. She said something about riding with you to the hospital, to keep an eye on you. Her words echoed hollowly in Jinx’s head, distorted and distant, as though spoken through water. Jinx could only nod dumbly, her gaze anchored on your lifeless form. She couldn’t tear her eyes away long enough to focus on Vi’s face. She barely caught the flash of pink hair as her sister sprinted off, hopping into the ambulance as its doors swung shut with a heavy thud.

Meanwhile, Caitlyn stood a short distance away, breathing shallowly, tears clinging to her lashes. Her entire world was disintegrating moment by moment. She replayed tiny memories: the feel of your arm around her waist, your laughter calming her racing heart, the rare moments your lips touched hers—far too few. She’d barely begun to know the texture of your love, barely savored the quiet mornings, the gentle reassurances, the silent conversations of glances and smiles. Now, it felt as if it had been stolen from her, yanked away by fate’s cruel hand. A distant figure, Ekko, reached out to comfort her, but she recoiled instinctively, shrugging him off with trembling shoulders as she staggered forward, drawn toward you even though you were already gone from sight.

The world smoldered in silence and despair. Fires of anguish danced behind Caitlyn’s eyes. The crowd around them faded into blurred silhouettes. Her chest tightened, and she struggled for air as if drowning. She wiped at her tears, her throat raw with screams left unvoiced. The city’s noise became a distant roar. All that mattered was you, and the knowledge that your heartbeat might have stilled.

Then, across a brief expanse of rubble and smoke, Caitlyn’s tear-filled gaze met Jinx’s. In that slow-motion moment, all their old grudges, their rivalries, their differences evaporated like mist in the morning sun. Both women’s hearts bled pain, reflected plainly in their eyes. Jinx, breathing unevenly, gently eased Isha into Sevika’s arms, not needing words to command Sevika to care for the child. Isha, sobbing quietly, still holding the trinket you’d made, reached out feebly as Jinx stepped away. Sevika cradled the little one, murmuring something inaudible, her own stern eyes shining with something close to sorrow.

Jinx and Caitlyn stumbled toward each other as if guided by some gravitational force. Their legs threatened to give out, the ground swaying beneath them. Every step felt like crossing a battlefield of memories and regrets, of anger and misunderstandings that no longer mattered. The dust danced in the thinning light, casting long shadows of their forms. They closed the distance, and as they reached one another, they collapsed into each other’s arms like fallen angels, wings broken, seeking comfort in the only place they could find it now.

Their bodies trembled with sobs that they tried to hold back but failed. Jinx pressed her face into Caitlyn’s shoulder, her fingers tangling in the strands of Caitlyn’s hair, clinging as if Caitlyn were the last tether to reality. Caitlyn, arms wrapped around Jinx’s waist, choked on her tears, her voice hitching as she tried to form words. They dropped to their knees, still locked in that embrace, their pain merging into a singular force of grief and devotion. They whispered half-words, promises carried on shaky breaths. The smell of smoke, sweat, and blood lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of all they had lost and were losing.

“I can’t lose them,” Caitlyn managed, voice muffled by Jinx’s collar. “I can’t. We’ve barely begun… we need them here.” Jinx nodded fiercely, tears falling freely now onto Caitlyn’s shoulder. “I know,” Jinx whispered, her voice breaking. “They’ll make it. They have to. For all of us.”

When they pulled back slightly, their foreheads touching, the world shrank to that intimate space of shared grief and determination. Caitlyn’s tears slid down her cheeks in silver trails as she managed, “Promise me, Jinx—if something happens, if… if they don’t…” Her voice cracked into silence, too frightened to say the words. “Promise we’ll stop at nothing to make sure they get justice.”

Jinx closed her eyes, pressing her forehead more firmly against Caitlyn’s. “I promise,” she breathed, voice low and strong. “No matter what happens, we’ll make them pay.”

The world beyond them continued in slow-motion chaos—Vi leaving with the ambulance, Ekko and Sevika trying to calm Isha, the crowds murmuring and praying for miracles. Above, the wounded tower bore silent witness to the heartbreak unfolding below.

Caitlyn and Jinx remained in that desperate embrace, tears merging with sweat and ash. In that instant, all rivalry, all resentment, dissolved. The cost of this war had reached too high. They had lost so much, but they would not lose you without a fight.

______

Inside the ambulance, the siren’s wail muted to a distant drone, as if the world outside no longer mattered. The cramped interior smelled of disinfectant and sweat. Vi hovered close, fists clenched at her sides, eyes fixed on your motionless form. The EMTs worked in tense silence, their gloves and uniforms damp with the condensation of frantic effort. Every breath they took, every instrument they lifted, seemed unbearably loud against the hush that fell over the van.

“Answer me,” Vi demanded, voice cracking as she struggled to maintain composure. “Is she—?” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t voice the terror choking her. “Is she alive?”

One EMT, eyes shadowed with fatigue, spared her a brief glance. “We’re doing everything we can. Please, ma’am, let us work.”

That wasn’t enough. Vi’s heart hammered. She leaned forward, desperate for any sign of life. Another EMT knelt beside you, carefully cutting through the soaked fabric of your shirt to reach your back. The sound of tearing cloth seemed deafening in the quiet. They eased you onto your side, the vehicle rocking slightly as it sped down the streets. The EMT’s brows knitted together, and he exchanged a heavy look with his colleague. Silence thickened, dread settling over them all.

Vi’s throat tightened. “What is it?” she pressed, her voice little more than a plea. “Tell me!”

The EMT finally turned you on your back, the front of your shirt peeled away. Water droplets gleamed on your pale skin, bruises flowering darkly over your ribs and shoulders. Vi could see the bullet wound—an ugly, glistening hole—and her stomach lurched. The other EMT gasped softly, leaning closer, probing gently with skilled fingers. Another ragged piece of fabric fell away, and there it was: a second wound. An exit wound.

“Exit wound,” muttered one of the EMTs, relief blooming in his tone. He looked up at Vi, his features softening with something like hope. “The bullet’s gone through,” he said quietly. “They’re not out of danger yet, but—there’s a chance. The bullet didn’t lodge inside.” His voice faltered, and he continued more confidently, “We can stabilize her. They’re hanging on.”

Vi’s breath caught. She almost dared to hope. “She’s going to make it?” she asked, voice trembling. She tried to imagine your pain, your fight for breath, your heart stubbornly beating. Her mind replayed the scene: Isha in your arms, pressed tight against you, and then that bullet. The angle of the shot. The trinket. The memory hit her, and her eyes widened. The toy you made for Isha—crafted with love and care—must have deflected or slowed the bullet, protecting the child. Her heart twisted. Even in your desperate leap, you’d found a way to shield her.

“We have a pulse spike!” shouted one of the EMTs from the front, looking at the monitor, excitement cracking his voice.

Vi’s hand instinctively found yours, her fingers curling around your limp hand. She leaned down, her forehead nearly touching yours, voice low and raw with emotion. “You’re gonna be okay,” she murmured, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Do you hear me? You’re not done. Not now. Not after all this.”

The EMT at the monitor let out a quiet laugh of astonishment. “A miracle,” he breathed, and the word hung sweet and tender in the tense air. They resumed their work with renewed vigor, their motions swift and determined. The van sped on, cutting through Piltover’s streets, carrying hope and heartbreak in equal measure.

Vi just held your hand tighter, praying silently you would hold on long enough for them all to see you smile again.

_____

Caitlyn sat at her desk, face set in a grim scowl. The gaslight glow revealed new lines of exhaustion etched into her features. Papers lay strewn across the surface—warrants, decrees, and official pleas—all attempts to pull Mel into a face-to-face confrontation. The tension in the room was palpable as she fiddled with her pen, occasionally tapping it on the desk with sharp, deliberate clicks. Each sound echoed her frustration. She wanted in that room with Mel so badly she could taste it, to show the councilor exactly what came of trying to tear apart the fragile peace she had worked so hard to protect.

The sound of boots in the corridor broke through her dark reverie. She nodded to the guard, a brief jerk of her chin, and the door swung open to admit Jinx. The Zaunite stepped inside with uncharacteristic calm, her eyes flicking over the documents Caitlyn had gathered. She drifted closer, eventually leaning over Caitlyn’s shoulder to scan the warrant Caitlyn intended to serve to Mel.

For a moment, neither spoke. Caitlyn’s shoulders were stiff with pent-up rage, and Jinx’s gaze narrowed as she pieced together the plan forming in Caitlyn’s mind. Finally, Caitlyn broke the silence, her voice low and steady, “Do you hate me more than before? If I do this—if I attempt something that could change so much between the three of us—will you hate me?”

Jinx’s brow furrowed. The question caught her off guard. She crossed her arms, leaning back, considering her words carefully. “Hate you?” she repeated, her tone subdued. “I never really hated you, Piltie. I hated what you stood for, maybe. Your rules, your neat little world that I never fit into. And Vi…” She let the name hang in the air, implying the complicated history that still weighed on both of them. “But since we all… found her,” Jinx paused, eyes distant as if remembering better times with you, “I realized I don’t have room to hate you. Not when we’ve both become better because of her. We wouldn’t be who we are without… you know.”

Caitlyn absorbed these words, nodding slowly. A reluctant respect passed between them—an understanding that the person you loved had somehow bridged the impossible gap. “Come,” she said, her voice tight with emotion, “we need the conference room.” She stood, gathering her paperwork, her gunbelt jingling softly as she moved. “I promise Mel isn’t in there.”

Jinx nodded, following her with quiet determination. They stepped into the corridor and descended into a spacious, high-ceilinged conference room lit by crystal chandeliers that seemed too bright, too pristine for the ugly truths they carried. Councilors were already assembled around a polished table. The atmosphere turned heavy as Caitlyn took her seat at the head of the table, Jinx surprisingly close by, standing at her shoulder like a loyal partner. Their presence together raised a few eyebrows, but no one dared comment outright.

Caitlyn cleared her throat, spreading the documents before her. “We’re here to address the grievous situation,” she began, her voice cold and clipped. “Mel’s involvement in abducting our… our hero.” Her throat caught slightly on that word, but she continued. “She has broken every code of conduct, threatened Piltover’s stability, and shown utter disregard for the alliances we’ve tried to forge.”

A few councilors exchanged uneasy glances. One cleared his throat and said, “With all due respect, Commander, the individual in question—this hero—is from Zaun. Legally, they hold no council position, no formal standing. What do you expect us to do? Without official status, we have limited leverage.”

Jinx’s eyes flashed, and she leaned forward with a sneer. Caitlyn, noting the tension, laid a hand on the table. Her back ramrod straight, she stared each councilor down in turn. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly, “and I’m about to prove it.”

She placed a single sheet of crisp parchment in the center of the table. “According to Piltover’s legal handbook, if an individual is legally bound—married—to a councilor, they gain immediate protections under Piltover’s laws. This includes the right to full investigation and legal action against anyone who harms them.”

A gasp rippled around the room. Jinx stiffened, her heart fluttering in her chest. She tried to hide her shock, but her jaw tightened subtly. Caitlyn didn’t look at Jinx, her gaze fixed on the councilors, daring any of them to object. “I propose marriage,” she stated, her voice unwavering, “to her. As Commander of the Piltover Army, I claim my right to marry who I choose. And once she is my wedded spouse, I will unleash every legal resource Piltover has at its disposal to bring Mel to justice.”

The councilors murmured, scandalized and astonished. They knew Caitlyn Kiramman as strict, law-abiding, measured. But this—this was unprecedented. Her eyes, glacial and steady, left no room for doubt. She was deadly serious. Anyone who dared contradict her now faced not only her wrath, but the collapse of their carefully maintained order.

Jinx swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected this. Marriage? It wasn’t jealousy she felt, but a strange, twisted surge of hope. If this could bring you back—if this could secure justice—then who was she to argue? She caught Caitlyn’s eye, and the enforcer’s stare was calm, purposeful. It was a promise. A promise of unity, of doing whatever it took to save you.

Silence stilled the room, and one councilor cleared his throat, “This is… drastic.”

Caitlyn leaned forward, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Drastic? You think this is drastic? She has been kidnapped, tortured. Mel has crossed every line. You should be thanking me for using a legal avenue rather than burning the city down.” She scanned their faces, letting the threat hang in the air. “I am the commander of the Piltover Army. She will be my soon-to-be wedded spouse. And I will stop at nothing—nothing—to get the legal protections we need to tear Mel’s empire apart.”

After a heavy pause, she stood, papers in hand, meeting Jinx’s gaze. “This meeting is over,” she said, voice clipped. “Return to your quarters. I have much to prepare.”

The councilors stood in stunned silence as Caitlyn and Jinx turned away. Once out of earshot, Caitlyn’s hand found Jinx’s, their fingers intertwining unexpectedly. Jinx’s lips parted, but no words came. She could only nod slowly, understanding what Caitlyn had just sacrificed: her pride, her position, her future plans. All for you.

Caitlyn leaned in, voice low so only Jinx could hear. “This was the only way without destroying everything she worked for. Everything we helped build with them. We can’t let Mel win. This… it’s our best chance.”

Jinx lowered her eyes, thinking of you—wounded, alone, waiting for rescue. If this marriage, this legal claim, was the key to saving you and Isha… then so be it. She nodded, voice caught in her throat, no teasing remark this time.

“Let’s do it,” she said quietly, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Together, they left the council room, hearts heavy but resolved, their entwined hands a silent vow to bring you home.

---------

A gentle hush enveloped the hospital room, the kind of quiet that felt protective rather than empty. The air carried the faint smell of antiseptic, mixed with the subtle scent of flowers someone must have brought. You stirred, groaning softly as pain flared in your chest. Instinctively, you clutched at the bandages wrapped snugly around your torso. Your heart hammered unevenly as reality drifted back into focus.

A chair scraped lightly against the floor. “Easy, easy,” Vi’s familiar voice cut through the haze, calm and steady. She stood and approached your bed, her presence a comforting beacon in your confusion. “You’re safe, okay? You’re in the hospital.”

You blinked, vision still fuzzy. “Vi?” you managed, your voice raspy. Your throat ached as if you’d swallowed broken glass. “What… what happened?”

Vi reached for a cup of water on the side table, carefully pressing it into your hand. “You’ve been out for almost a day,” she said quietly, her gaze warm with relief. She waited as you took a tentative sip. “After your… fall,” she began, her eyes flicking downward briefly before meeting yours again, “they rushed you here. Doctors, medics, everyone’s been working round the clock.” She paused, letting the severity of the situation sink in. “Jinx and Caitlyn are going to lose their minds when they hear you’re awake.”

Your memory was fractured, images of that brutal scene with Mel lurking at the edges of your mind. Something more important tugged at your heart. “Isha,” you croaked. “What about Isha?”

A softness touched Vi’s face at the mention of the child’s name. “She’s okay,” Vi said, her voice gentling even further. “Ekko and Sevika found her. She got pretty shaken up, but she’s safe. She’s been hovering around this place, I’m told, waiting to see you again. They’ve all been frantic.”

Relief so profound it brought tears to your eyes washed over you. You took a shallow, careful breath, wincing at the ache in your chest. “Good. That’s… that’s all that matters.”

Silence fell for a moment, both of you absorbing what had happened. The hum of distant hospital equipment provided a steady backdrop. Vi cleared her throat. “You know, seeing you fight like that…” She hesitated, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “It reminded me of when we were kids. Remember how I used to teach you how to throw a proper punch? How to stand your ground?”

A distant warmth spread through your chest, battling the pain. You nodded, eyes distant with memory. “Yeah, I remember,” you murmured, your voice calmer now. “I must’ve driven you crazy, asking questions and wanting to learn everything at once.”

Vi chuckled softly, the sound like a balm. “You were always ahead of the class, even back then. Quicker, sharper. I was proud of you then. I’m proud of you now.” She placed a hand gently over yours, her calloused fingers wrapping around your knuckles. The gesture spoke volumes neither of you needed to say aloud.

Your eyes found hers, sincerity shining there. “Some things never change,” you whispered, voice thick with gratitude. You squeezed her hand softly, and she returned the pressure.

Just then, the door to your room eased open with a quiet creak. An enforcer stepped inside, his helmet tucked under one arm. He straightened at the sight of you awake and inclined his head respectfully. There was something different in his demeanor—an earnest kindness that took you by surprise.

“Glad to see you up and about,” he said, voice sincere. “We’ve all been worried.” His eyes flicked between you and Vi, reading the relief in the air. “Now that you’re awake, I’ve got a list of visitors waiting for permission to see you.” He cleared his throat, as if unsure how to proceed. “Sevika and the child—er, Isha—are outside. They’d like to come in whenever you’re ready.”

You blinked, still feeling disoriented, but grateful beyond words that Isha and Sevika were here and safe. “Of course,” you replied softly. “They can come in.”

The enforcer nodded smartly. “Yes, Mrs. Kiramman.” He stepped back, placing a hand over his chest in a respectful salute, then pivoted on his heel to leave, the door clicking shut behind him.

Time seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You frowned, confusion knitting your brow. Mrs. Kiramman? You turned to Vi, and found her looking just as baffled. She frowned, lips parted as if to say something but no sound emerged.

“What did he—?” you began, but your voice failed, replaced by a swirl of questions in your mind. Mrs. Kiramman. A title you never thought you'd hear associated with you. Something monumental had happened while you were fighting for your life—something that left even Vi stunned into silence.

Vi shook her head slowly, a strange mix of wonder and uncertainty painted on her face. “I’m as lost as you,” she said quietly, still holding your hand. “But it sounds like Caitlyn and Jinx did something big… something huge.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

You swallowed hard, heart drumming in your chest. Whatever had taken place while you were unconscious, it was done in love, you were sure of it. You prayed silently that it would mean you were safe to heal and find your way back into their arms.

The hospital room fell quiet as the door swung open again. Isha burst through, her small legs carrying her straight into your waiting arms. You stiffened slightly at the initial jolt of pain, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the soft weight of her body against you, her arms clutching at your neck. You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes as you held her close, breathing in her faint childlike scent. Relief swelled in your chest.

Sevika followed at a more measured pace, her mechanical arm catching the light. You lifted your head to greet her, and she gave a curt nod. “Took you long enough,” you teased, your voice still hoarse but laced with a faint smirk.

Sevika rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’re alive, aren’t you?” She huffed, but you caught the flicker of genuine relief in her eyes.

“Thanks for doing all the heavy lifting while I was out cold,” you murmured dryly.

“Sure, princess,” she shot back, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t get used to it.”

Isha snuggled closer, resting her head against your chest. The tension in the room eased. Just then, the door cracked open once more, and the enforcer from before stepped inside. He carried himself differently now—straighter, more respectful. “I’ve notified Commander Kiramman and Mrs. Jinx that you’re awake,” he said. “They’re on their way.”

You blinked. “Mrs. Jinx?” you repeated, confusion tugging at your brows.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, Mrs. Kiramman,” he said, placing a hand across his chest in a salute before backing out of the room.

Your eyes shot to Vi, who stood near the window. She looked just as puzzled. “Since when—?” you began, but Vi shook her head.

“Don’t look at me. I’ve been out of the loop,” Vi said, sounding both amused and wary. She glanced at Sevika. “You know something about this?”

Sevika pursed her lips, seeming suddenly stressed. “It’s better if Caitlyn explains,” she said gruffly, offering no more.

An uneasy silence followed. You took advantage of it to rest your head back against the pillows, relief flooding you at the sound of Isha’s gentle breathing. Your hand found her tiny one, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She was safe. That was the thought you clung to above all else.

After a moment, Vi spoke again, her voice softer. “After you fell,” she started, leaning against the windowsill, “it was chaos. Jinx and Caitlyn lost it—nearly tore the city down trying to find you. Everyone did. They got in, found Isha, got you out of the water and here… It was a miracle.” She swallowed, and her voice faltered slightly, emotion slipping through. “We all thought we’d lost you.”

You closed your eyes, imagining Jinx’s fury, Caitlyn’s tears, all of them searching and fighting. “I’m sorry you went through that,” you said quietly. “Glad everyone’s okay.”

Isha stirred at the sound of your voice and, realizing she was hungry, her little stomach grumbled quietly. You chuckled softly. “Guess we both need something more than hospital broth, huh?” you teased lightly, smoothing her hair down as she blinked sleepily at you.

Vi straightened, nodding. “I’ll get on that,” she said, giving Sevika a look. Sevika nodded, and the two of them slipped out the door to let the enforcers know you needed real food.

With just you and Isha left behind, you pulled her close, cradling her against your chest. Your eyelids grew heavy, and you surrendered to the quiet moment, letting the hush of the hospital and the beat of your own heart lull you. Isha’s breathing steadied, and soon you both drifted into a fragile, much-needed slumber.

Time blurred as you slept. Footsteps and hushed voices in the hall pulled you back from the edge of unconsciousness. The door outside your room was guarded, and two figures approached hand-in-hand—Caitlyn and Jinx. The hallway seemed endless, every step resonating with unspoken vows and sorrow. Caitlyn’s enforcers stood at attention, parting before them. In that subtle act, something had shifted: Jinx stood at Caitlyn’s side as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Neither woman questioned it.

Caitlyn gave Jinx’s hand a gentle squeeze. “No matter what,” she whispered, voice tight with worry and resolve, “I’m putting everything on the line. My position, my authority—everything. I won’t lose them again.”

Jinx nodded, her eyes red but fiercely determined. “We’ll make it right,” she said simply.

They entered quietly, bracing themselves for what they might see. Inside, the soft hospital glow fell on your still form, Isha curled at your side. The sight broke their hearts anew. The bandage wrapped around your torso, the bruises and cuts that marred your skin, the weariness in your half-lidded eyes as you stirred—none of it should have happened. Not to you.

Jinx reached you first, her hand gently sliding into yours, while Isha’s small hand cradled your cheek, all still half-asleep. Caitlyn came to your other side, leaning down to press a delicate kiss against your temple. You opened your eyes slowly, meeting their gazes, a small, wry smile pulling at your cracked lips. “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” you rasped, voice scratchy but light, trying to comfort them both. Your words made tears brim in their eyes, relief mixing with lingering fear.

You took a breath, steeling yourself, and began to recount everything that happened in Mel’s tower—her threats, her cruelty, her twisted plans. They listened, their faces darkening, jaws clenched. Jinx’s grip on your hand tightened, and Caitlyn’s eyes blazed with a silent fury.

The door opened again, and the enforcer who had come before stepped in. He greeted you warmly, happier than before to see you awake and stable. “Should I send Sevika and Vi back in, Mrs. Kiramman?” he asked politely.

Your heart nearly stopped. Mrs. Kiramman. There it was again. You looked at Caitlyn, searching for an explanation. Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, her eyes darting away. She looked nervous, scared even. You’d never seen her like this—Caitlyn Kiramman, Commander of the Piltover Army, rendered shy and hesitant.

Jinx raised an eyebrow at Caitlyn’s reaction, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the gravity of the moment. “Go on, Cupcake. Tell ‘em.”

Caitlyn drew a shaking breath. “While you were… recovering, I took… measures,” she began, voice trembling slightly. “Legal measures, to protect you. I proposed a marriage—” She met your astonished gaze. “To you. On paper, you’re set to become my spouse, and that grants you certain protections. Not just my protections as an army commander, but under Piltover law, we can bring Mel to justice with no question.”

Your mind swam, shock and disbelief warring with gratitude and, strangely, relief. You opened your mouth but no words formed. Your throat felt tight.

Caitlyn forced a nervous laugh, wiping at the corner of her eye. “I know it’s sudden. I’ll have a ring made for you,” she faltered, then glanced at Jinx, swallowing hard. “For both of you, actually.”

Jinx’s eyes widened, then a grin spread across her face. She leaned over your form and pressed a quick, playful kiss to Caitlyn’s cheek. “Oh, this just got interesting,” she teased, her tone lighter, if only by a fraction.

You were frozen, speechless, as your eyes flicked between them. Finally, you managed a whisper: “I… missed a lot, didn’t I?”

They both laughed softly through tears, and you realized that, despite the pain and fear, you were surrounded by love. The future might be complicated, but you were alive, and they were here. You squeezed both their hands, letting your heart speak what words couldn’t.

->->->

A few days had passed since your dramatic return from the brink, and you now found yourself settled in Caitlyn’s quarters. You’d been warned not to overexert yourself, but that didn’t stop you from limping off the plush couch in the dimly lit living space and making a clumsy beeline for the kitchen. The glow of a single lamp cast your shadow long and wobbly as you favored your uninjured side, doing your best not to hiss aloud at every step. Your eyes were set on a simple goal: a glass of water from the cabinet across the island.

Caitlyn’s voice drifted from the next room, something about a meeting in the morning, but you weren’t really listening. Your entire concentration was on not knocking over that vase sitting precariously close to the kitchen’s edge. When you finally reached your target, you lifted your arm, only to realize the glass was just out of reach. You stretched, wincing, your ribs protesting loudly. You’d been through worse, right? Another stretch and—

A throat cleared softly behind you. You froze mid-stretch.

“I told you to use your crutches,” Caitlyn said pointedly, appearing at the kitchen’s threshold. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyebrows raised. Her disapproval was evident.

You tried to play innocent, but your attempted smile turned into a pained grimace. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, “I’ve been through worse. Don’t see why I’m not healing faster. I’m like… superhuman or something.”

Caitlyn snorted softly, moving towards you. “You were shot,” she reminded calmly, “nearly died, might I add, and most of your ribs are either broken or bruised.” She gently took the glass from the shelf and handed it to you. “I’m quite certain no one expects you to bounce back in a day.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, Dr. Caitlyn. I didn’t know you had a medical degree.” You took the water, and before you could drink, she leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“I care about you,” she murmured against your mouth, “and I’d rather you not end up back in the hospital.” But you, ever the rebel, attempted to deepen the kiss, leaning in suggestively. Caitlyn pulled back just in time, shaking her head and placing a hand gently on your chest. “Easy there,” she teased, “doctor’s orders. No strenuous activity—including that.”

You pretended to pout, shuffling your way back toward the couch. “Spoil-sport,” you muttered under your breath.

Just as you were about to plop down (carefully) on the couch, the door creaked open. Jinx breezed in, Isha’s small footsteps echoing behind her. Your face lit up, smile bright. “Jinx!” you greeted with an enthusiastic wave, which caused a twinge in your side. Ouch. Worth it.

Caitlyn wasted no time. “Oh, perfect timing, Jinx,” she said, crossing her arms. “Someone here decided to go wandering around without assistance.”

You shot Caitlyn a half-hearted glare. “Traitor,” you hissed softly.

Jinx smirked, sauntering over, her purple eyes gleaming with mischief. She leaned in and kissed you softly, her lips just brushing yours. You tried to pull her closer—only for her to pull away, wagging a finger as if scolding a misbehaving puppy. “Tsk, tsk. What did the doc say? No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity. I’d say that includes making out, too.”

You groaned dramatically, grabbing a plushie—a weird, fuzzy creature Vi had gifted you with a “get well soon” note—and tossing it lamely toward Caitlyn. It soared a pitiful few inches before flopping to the floor near her feet.

Caitlyn gave you a deadpan look, and Jinx giggled, thoroughly enjoying the exchange.

Sevika and Vi had stepped out to arrange more substantial food for you and Isha, who had quietly taken a seat beside you, eyes shining as you offered her a slice of pineapple from a small bowl someone had left on the coffee table. You winked at her, tossing a piece gently across the living room, and to your delight, it landed perfectly in her mouth. Isha giggled, the sound like a tiny bell in the tense room, and you cheered quietly, wincing again but grinning through the pain.

Caitlyn and Jinx moved over to the kitchen island, speaking in hushed tones. Their posture was close, intimate in a cautious way. You pretended not to listen, but your ears perked up anyway.

“I’ve filed the necessary papers,” Caitlyn said, leaning forward, her voice steady but her nerves clearly on edge. “The council knows I intend to marry them. It’s… unexpected, but I want to make sure Mel understands what she’s dealing with. This gives us a legal edge. If they’re my spouse, I have more power, more rights to act.”

Jinx folded her arms, at first stunned by the mention of marriage. But then she cracked a smirk. “You’re serious? Marriage. Didn’t think you’d pull that card, Cupcake. But I gotta say, it’s bold.” Her tone turned thoughtful. “They’re worth it. Everything we’ve done—this fight, the pain—we owe it to them.”

Caitlyn nodded, her eyes cast down for a moment. Then she looked up, her expression softening. She reached out and took Jinx’s hand, fingers curling gently around hers. Jinx stiffened slightly, surprised by the tenderness. “Jinx,” Caitlyn began, voice quiet but firm, “I know we’ve had our differences. Hell, we used to be enemies. But I’ve come to respect you, to admire what you bring to their life. And I… I think I’ve come to care about you, too.”

Jinx’s eyes widened. She tried to play it off, a teasing gleam entering her gaze. “Careful, Piltie. Don’t get sappy on me now.” But her voice shook slightly. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then yeah… I guess I feel the same. We’re all tangled together now, and… I’m not complaining.”

In that soft moment, the sounds of your quiet laughter carried over. Caitlyn and Jinx glanced at you, lying on the couch with Isha. Isha giggled again as you attempted another pineapple toss, this time celebrating more quietly as it landed near her. You smiled, half delirious with fatigue and medication, and waved your free hand at them, your grin lopsided but happy.

Jinx and Caitlyn turned back to each other. It was settled, then. Their differences were trivial compared to what they’d almost lost.

As the two women straightened, Caitlyn’s cheeks tinted faintly pink, and Jinx’s smile turned mischievous. Jinx leaned in and kissed Caitlyn’s cheek, a gesture that spoke volumes—an agreement, a partnership. Caitlyn blushed harder, and Jinx chuckled softly.

From the couch, you were caught in stunned silence, your brain still registering the domestic chaos and unexpected confessions. You finally managed to whisper in a playful tone, “I must’ve missed a lot.”

They both looked at you, eyes shining with a new understanding. And in that shared gaze, something deeper formed—hope, resilience, and the promise of a future built on unity rather than division.

->->->

Late night starlight trickled through the windows, painting the kitchen in quiet hues of silver and blue. You stood hunched over the kitchen island, your shoulders relaxed, the marriage papers spread before you like a map to a future you never quite imagined. The silence was comforting. You flipped through the pages, absorbing the legalities that tethered your life to Caitlyn’s authority—and, indirectly, to Jinx and Isha. You’d recovered almost fully now, your aches and bruises reduced to faint reminders, your chest no longer wrapped in bandages. Still, you took your time reading, wanting to understand every clause, every promise lurking between the lines.

You felt her presence before you heard her. Caitlyn, leaning against the wall just out of your line of sight, arms folded softly. You knew she was there, watching. She always did that—let you have your moment, your breathing space, while keeping a vigilant eye. You didn’t acknowledge her right away, focusing on a particular paragraph that detailed the legal protections and rights transferred upon the union.

Eventually, Caitlyn spoke, her voice low and gentle. “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” she said, each word carefully weighed. “I never intended to corner you into a marriage for legal reasons. But Mel’s… actions left us with little choice. This was the best way to ensure you’d be safe, and that you’d have the power to continue your work, to keep building that bridge between Piltover and Zaun.”

You paused, letting her apology settle into the quiet. You turned the last page, running your fingertips over the ink. Finally, you lifted your gaze and fixed it on Caitlyn. Her silhouette was touched by moonlight, highlighting the concern etching her features. The purple glow in your eyes caught her attention, and you saw her posture ease when she realized the shimmer in your blood had rekindled. You were healing, truly.

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, almost smiling. The worry in her face softened. The purple in your eyes meant something to her—strength, vitality, your unyielding spirit. “You’re getting stronger,” she said, her voice hitching a bit on that last word, as if it gave her comfort.

You leaned your elbows on the island, pushing the documents aside. “I’ve been thinking,” you began, choosing your words with care. “About Jinx, and you, and this whole arrangement. I don’t want Jinx left out. I never wanted that. I want… the both of you. For the rest of my life. No one else.”

Caitlyn’s lips parted, her eyes shining with an emotion she tried to contain. She nodded slowly. Without a word, she stepped forward and placed a small velvet box on the countertop. You raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at your lips. “Quick to get a ring, aren’t you?” you teased lightly, expecting some band for you.

With a slight, nervous laugh, Caitlyn flipped the box open. You leaned in, only to gasp softly. Inside wasn’t your ring—it was one for Jinx. A beautiful piece, edgy yet elegant, something that would suit Jinx’s wild spirit. Your eyes flicked up to Caitlyn’s in quiet awe.

She took a breath and began. “I’ve come to realize something,” Caitlyn said softly. “I’m happiest when we’re together. All three of us. I think… we’re stronger that way. And I want Jinx to know that this isn’t just about you and me, or legalities. It’s about all of us. I want her to be part of this—of us—for real.”

You felt your chest tighten with gratitude and love. You let out a soft laugh, relief and warmth flooding you. Caitlyn’s confession made your heart flutter. You reached across the island, your fingers closing around her hand. You felt the coolness of her skin, the subtle tremor in her fingertips.

In that dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by silence and the distant hum of a sleeping city, you followed an impulsive spark. You moved quickly, your body barely protesting as you lunged forward. Caitlyn gasped softly, caught off guard, as you pressed your lips to hers. This wasn’t a light kiss—this was you pouring everything into it, your soul’s breath, your heart’s yearnings, your mind’s gratitude. All the pain, the fear, the relief, the love coalesced in that single, passionate moment.

Caitlyn’s free hand rose to your shoulder, and you felt her smile against your mouth, her breathing unsteady. You were aware of the faint scent of her hair, the soft hum of her small contented sigh. When you finally pulled away, you stayed close, resting your forehead against hers. Her eyes were wide, tears welling, and in that luminous haze of vulnerability, you whispered, “I love you.”

It was simple, raw. The words came out quieter than expected, almost breaking on a sob you didn’t know you held. You loved her. You told her at last.

Caitlyn’s eyes shone as the tears finally spilled over. She let out a breathless laugh, shaky but joyful. “You…” she began, voice trembling. “You love me… I love you, too. I love you so much.” She repeated it, as if tasting the words, as if by saying it again and again she could make it more real, more permanent. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

You smiled, your face damp with your own tears. The world felt infinitely kinder in that moment. The darkness of the past weeks receded, leaving behind a fragile but glowing promise. Your heart, so long battered and tested, found solace in Caitlyn’s voice, in her words, in her love.

In the silence that followed, you thought about Jinx asleep in the other room, Isha dreaming peacefully, and Vi, Sevika, Ekko all working on a future shaped by your shared struggles. This was your family, unexpected and eccentric, forged in crisis and tempered by love.

As you stood there, forehead to forehead with Caitlyn, tears drying on your cheeks, you knew that no matter what Mel tried, or what storms lay ahead, you had something unbreakable. You had each other.

The city of Zaun breathed differently now—whispers of a gentler future drifted through its alleys, and the hum of machinery felt less hostile. You walked at a measured pace beside Sevika, your footsteps echoing along metal walkways and old stone paths. Rusted pipes and flickering neon signs painted a palette of subdued color over the streets, and you caught sight of fewer rough characters lurking in the shadows. It was as if the city itself exhaled a long, weary sigh and found some measure of calm.

Sevika tossed a small gear between her metal fingers, eyeing you with a guarded fondness. “You know,” she began, voice gruff but not unfriendly, “things’ve changed since you decided to play hero. Not so many muggings, not so many fights. The gangs keep to their corners, and I don’t have to watch my back every damn second.” She laughed dryly, “I’d say you’ve become a god here, but I know better than to inflate your ego.”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “God?” you repeated, eyebrows lifting in amused disbelief. “Come on, Sevika, I’m just someone who wanted peace since I was a kid. Nothing more.” The thought made your heart warm. “I never planned on becoming some legendary figure. I just… wanted everyone to stop hurting each other.”

Sevika shrugged, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Well, you got what you wanted, for now.” She gestured ahead, where Jinx’s lair beckoned with its now more colorful lights dancing across broken beams and suspended platforms. The place looked different, touched by brighter hues and small tokens of cheer that hadn’t been there before.

When you reached the door, Sevika stopped abruptly and hesitated. Then, with a grunt that sounded too embarrassed to be anything but sincere, she pulled you into a sudden hug. Her mechanical arm clinked softly, and her human arm tightened gently around your shoulder. “Thanks,” she said quietly, her voice rough with something unspoken. “For everything. Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding,” she added, pulling back and feigning a scowl to mask how much that gesture meant.

You huffed a laugh, mock-pushing her away. “Sure thing,” you teased. “Just don’t complain about the seating arrangements.”

Sevika rolled her eyes, stepping back with a half-smile. “Whatever, I’ll take Isha with me. Give you and Jinx some time.” She waved off your thanks and walked away, footsteps heavy, as her form vanished around a corner.

Turning your attention to the lair, you entered slowly, eyes adjusting to the changing lights. The hum of music reverberated softly, a half-finished melody drifting from Jinx’s workbench. You leaned against a freshly installed railing—the edges no longer looked so sharp and dangerous. The place felt safer, more lived-in, as if Jinx had softened its edges in subtle tribute to the peace you’d fought for.

She hadn’t noticed you yet. Her goggles perched on her forehead, she tinkered with something small and metallic. The steady rhythm of her tools tapping and the quiet hum of the music created an intimate atmosphere. As if sensing your gaze, Jinx brushed her hair aside to fix her goggles and spotted you. The smile that graced her lips was different now—calmer, warmer, more full of love than mischief.

You pushed off the railing, crossing the space to her. “Working on something explosive?” you teased softly, voice low in the quiet room.

Jinx’s eyes sparked. “Maybe,” she admitted, her tone playfully secretive. “Let’s just say if Mel ever tries something again, I’ve got a few… surprises.” She turned down the music, her attention fully on you.

You stood before her, a good head taller, and as you reached out to brush a stray strand of her blue hair from her face, her lashes fluttered. She pressed closer, sliding her hands lightly over your waist. Jinx’s voice dropped to a whisper, “You’re so beautiful, you know that? The first time I saw you from above, I knew…” She swallowed hard, eyes glistening in the low light. “I knew you’d be someone extraordinary.”

Your heart twisted sweetly. Tears threatened at the corners of your eyes as you listened. Overwhelmed by how far you’d all come—Jinx, Caitlyn, you—and what it meant to be so cared for, so cherished. The tears escaped, sliding down your cheeks silently.

Jinx, ever observant, gently cupped your face, her thumb sweeping away the wetness. “You’re perfect,” she whispered, her voice quivering with intensity. “Your soul… it’s what the world needs. You, Caitlyn, and me—it’s crazy, but we fit together. We belong.”

You pulled her into a hug, your arms wrapping securely around her slender frame. She murmured reassurance after reassurance, stroking your back, calming the trembling in your chest.

As your emotions steadied, you leaned down to her ear, your breath warm against her skin. “Jinx,” you said softly, “I love you.” The words fell quiet but potent, like a secret only meant for her.

She pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. Something shifted—her pupils dilated, the hue of her irises flashing from purple to a brilliant blue, catching the faint reflection of your own eyes doing the same. A moment of quiet magic passed between you, some silent acknowledgment of a bond deeper than words. You both gasped softly, surprised and delighted by the sensation.

Jinx’s lips curved into a trembling smile, and before you could speak again, she grabbed your face and drew you into a deep, fervent kiss. You responded with equal longing, pressing her gently against her workbench. Her quiet whimpers and sighs rang sweet and gentle in your ears. She held you as if you might vanish, her fingers tangling into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer.

When finally you parted, both of you breathless, she whispered, “I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”

For a moment, the world stood still in the silence of her workshop. Just you and her, your heartbeats aligning. The distant hum of the city seemed muted, the future stretched open before you—complicated, challenging, but bright with possibility. And at last, you understood what it meant to be not just a part of Jinx’s life, but loved by her, and by Caitlyn, wholly and completely.

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This is for that ANON. Here you go pookie lololol

#wlw #fanfiction #book #lgbtq #love #jinx arcane #jinx x reader #caitlyn arcane #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn x reader #ekko arcane #sevika arcane #vi arcane #violet arcane

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