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dreamersparacosm · 17 days ago

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jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part four)

warnings ; where do i start. public sex kinda (they’re in an office), choking, degradation lowkey, fingering, unprotected sex, reader gets forced to say thank you??? idk bruh

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; let’s get one thing straight here — this is porn. porn to the highest degree. however, this is porn with plot, i swear. also, just so everyone’s aware, this is tpod!jk core. like this is how i imagine him when i write him (with this song. and that hair. especially this song and you SHOULD listen to it while reading.) anyways my point here is that this smut has meaning and it is not just some crack of the tension whip (although that, it is too. whatever. say thank you Ang!) <33

playlist here *and you should listen to meddle about while reading this*

series masterlist here

The headlines had hit before you’d even left the gala.

And by the time you wake up the next morning — bare-faced, half-blind, head pounding from one too many champagne flutes — it’s already a media typhoon.

At first, it’s quiet. A low simmer of speculation: grainy fan-captured footage, a couple throwaway tweets, Reddit sleuths dissecting every inch of fabric between Jungkook’s sleeve and Jennie’s waist like it’s a forensic crime scene. You squint at the screen, sip your espresso, and think Okay. Annoying, but containable.

Then it detonates.

Somewhere between your second cup of coffee and your third panicked email to the PR team, the entire internet decides: they’re in love. Secretly married. Expecting twins. Maybe launching a couple’s perfume line.

Your phone has been possessed ever since, buzzing, ringing, lighting up like a slot machine from hell. Sunrise to sunset, it doesn’t stop. Calvin Klein executives, press liaisons, Jungkook’s management.

Everywhere you look, there’s another headline screaming at you in all-caps bold Helvetica.

“JENNIE & JUNGKOOK: CALVIN KLEIN’S POWER COUPLE?”

“WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE GALA? BLACKPINK AND BTS HOTTEST COUPLE”

No confirmation. No Dispatch exposé. No official anything.

None of it matters though, because the internet doesn’t wait for facts. It builds empires out of crumbs. And right now, it’s building one out of Jungkook’s smirk and the angle of Jennie’s clavicle.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, hunched over your desk like a shell-shocked war general, fingers pressing into your temples hard enough to leave dents.

Across from you, Daniel doesn’t even look up. “No shit.”

He’s typing at Mach speed, probably trying to get ahead of the narrative. Your assistant is juggling five calls at once. The PR team is in full red-alert mode, assembling a strategy board like they’re planning a military coup.

You’ve been on back-to-back calls with Jungkook’s manager for the past day, trying to glue this mess back together with nothing but rage and anxiety.

“Can we at least get his company to release a statement?” you ask, flipping through the latest crisis reports.

Daniel snorts. “They aren’t touching this with a ten-foot pole.”

You glare. “Why?”

He glances up, deadpan. “Because it’s free publicity.”

You exhale so sharply it feels like your soul exits your body. Of course. Of fucking course.

Jungkook’s name is trending worldwide along with Jennie’s. Calvin Klein’s engagement metrics have gone full meteoric. This is the kind of viral attention marketing teams dream about minus the spontaneous combustion of your sanity. So, all that to say, no one actually cares that you’re bleeding out behind the scenes. That you haven’t slept in 24 hours. That your screen time is officially criminal. That every time you close your eyes, you see fan edits of his hand on her waist set to some dramatic TikTok audio and captioned “soulmates.”

The worst part of it all is you haven’t seen him. Not in meetings, in hallways and not even a fucking text.

While you’re spiraling into madness trying to do damage control, Jungkook is out there existing, probably blissfully unaware, shirtless in his hotel room, eating ramen and ignoring 400 missed calls.

Professionally — you’re furious. This was supposed to be your campaign, your legacy. Not some romantic scandal rebranded into clickbait. The optics are a nightmare. The timing couldn’t be worse. And now, instead of launching a clean global message, you’re managing a tabloid firestorm.

Personally — you want to launch him into the sun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The tension in the Los Angeles office conference room is unbearable. You sit at the head of the table, posture perfect but jaw clenched, while Jungkook lounges across from you like he didn’t just derail your entire campaign with his fucking face.

His expression is unreadable but you can feel it, the heat rolling off him. He’s pissed too. Good. Let him stew.

His manager is talking fast, voice tight, while Calvin Klein’s PR lead cycles through stats like this is a TED Talk. “There’s no actual damage… if anything, the buzz is working in our favor. Global engagement is up 36% in the past three days.”

You grip your pen so tightly it might become a weapon.

They’re treating it like a miracle, like this whole thing was orchestrated. Like you haven’t been putting out fires for 72 straight hours while Jungkook goes radio silent and lets the rumor mill chew you alive.

No one’s asking how you’re doing. No one’s wondering why your hands are shaking beneath the table or your voice has gone hoarse from repeating the same line in every call: There is no confirmed relationship between our brand ambassadors.

You don’t even look at Jungkook. You don’t need to. You can feel his crossed arms and the stubborn, infuriating silence a mile away. He hasn’t said a word this whole meeting, just simmering annoyance.

It’s mutual.

By the time the meeting wraps, you’re seconds away from snapping your pen in half and hurling it across the room.

“We’ll keep monitoring the situation,” Jungkook’s manager says, closing a notebook with a satisfied little snap. “No statements for now. Let’s see how it plays out.”

You smile politely. You are going to kill him. And you’re going to do it in a very calm, very professional, very brand-safe way.

Make no mistake, Jungkook is not getting out of this untouched. Especially not after you haven’t slept in three days, after you touched yourself like some hypnotized virgin because he told you to.

Everyone nods. There’s the rustle of papers, the scrape of chairs on polished floors, the low murmur of corporate farewells. One by one, people file out of the conference room, clutching tablets and crisis decks pretending they weren’t just gleefully discussing how to milk this for record-breaking engagement.

The door clicks shut behind the last person.

Thick, cloying, suffocating silence. It swallows the room whole.

For some reason you can’t explain, Jungkook does not file out of the room with the rest of the team. No, he sits there. You don’t move or have the energy to question his motives.

You sit frozen in your chair, every muscle pulled taut, fingers tapping slow against the glass table, almost like a warning and a countdown. Your other hand is curled into a fist in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your palm as you do the mental math on whether murder voids your employment contract.

Your eyes flick to Jungkook, who’s sprawled back in his chair, legs spread slightly apart, one ringed finger lazily dragging along the curve of his jaw like he’s bored. Or amused. Or both. His expression is neutral, completely detached. Like the headlines weren’t about him and he’s never even heard the word scandal.

He’s got that infuriating look again from the other night — that what chaos? look—and your jaw ticks.

Tap. Tap. Tap. One last, sharp crack of nail to glass.

“Tell me you’ve seen the fucking headlines.” You don’t yell. You don’t need to. Your voice slices through the air like it’s powered by three sleepless nights and a steady diet of cold espresso and escalating fury.

Jungkook’s eyes finally lift slowly like he’s gracing you with his attention.

You glare. “Tell me you’re not actually this stupid.”

The barest twitch of his brow. Something flashes behind his eyes — humor? guilt? boredom? — but it’s gone before you can grab hold of it.

Then he shrugs like your career isn’t currently dangling off a PR cliff. “What do you want me to do?” His tone is even, the exact pitch of someone who’s never once had to clean up after himself. “Call Dispatch and tell them I was just being friendly?”

You blink casually, pulse thudding in your ears.

You’re too well-trained to explode on him. Too experienced, too poised. But, something inside you combusts. A small, silent implosion of patience and all the fake calm you’ve been wearing.

He has no idea what it’s like to sit through back-to-back damage control meetings while your brand is turning into tabloid fodder. No clue how many favors you’ve had to call in, how many emails you’ve had to rewrite until your fingers went numb. How many headlines you’ve seen this week that made your stomach twist.

Somehow, he’s still looking at you like you’re the one overreacting.

Your voice drops, quieter now. “Friendly doesn’t involve your hand on her waist.”

Jungkook tilts his head lazily, like he’s trying to remember. “Didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to talk to people anymore.”

“Oh my god,” you exhale. “You are insufferable.”

The fact that he’s still calm, still sprawled out in that chair like this is just another workday, is only making everything worse.

You shove back from your chair so hard it scrapes across the floor with a screech that would make your assistant wince. Heels clicking, spine ramrod straight, you round the table like a storm in four-inch heels, not stopping until you’re toe-to-toe with his chair.

He doesn’t flinch, not even a blink. Just watches you approach like he’s a monument to indifference. His legs are splayed slightly apart, both arms calmly resting in his lap.

Your blood boils so hot it’s a miracle the fire alarms haven’t gone off.

“You think this is funny?” Your voice pierces through the air. “You think this is some harmless little flirtation?”

Still, no reaction. Just a slow exhale through his nose, like he’s being so patient with you.

“This isn’t about your personal life, Jungkook. This is about your goddamn responsibility to this brand,” You tower over him, and there’s a sense of joy that ripples through you as he stares up at you.

So, you keep going. “Do you even get how hard I’ve worked to make this campaign seamless? Flawless? Executives don’t throw global platform rollouts at just anyone, Jungkook. I fought tooth and nail for this and for you and now the only thing people are talking about is Jennie like it’s some soft launch.”

You see it the moment it lands; the flicker in his eyes, the slight drop of his shoulders, a shadow passing across his expression before it hardens again. Yet he has the nerve to lean back even farther like you’re just a minor inconvenience standing between him and his afternoon protein shake.

Then, finally, he speaks. It’s exactly as smug as you feared it would be. “Oh,” he says, “So that’s what’s really bothering you.”

Your jaw tightens so fast it might shatter.

Jungkook’s eyes glint, lips twitching, “You don’t like that people are talking about me with someone else.”

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, as if he’s not just poking the bear. He’s setting the entire forest on fire to see how you’ll react.

You laugh bitterly. It’s the kind of sharp, completely unhinged sound that spills out when you’ve officially crossed the border between frustration and rage. Your vision tunnels and your fists clench. You wonder if any judge would convict you for knocking out one of his perfectly white teeth.

“You’re fucking impossible,” you spit, nearly breathless.

“No,” he says slowly, coming to some realization. “You just hate when things don’t go your way.”

You take a step forward, dangerously close to falling on top of him in that chair. Close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, close enough to rip that chain off his neck if you wanted to.

“You are a reckless, immature, insufferable little shit who doesn’t know when to stop,” you snap, every word a direct shot to his ego.

Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “And you’re a fucking control freak who thinks the world will crumble if you’re not there to hold it up.”

Your breath hitches. That one sentence goes deeper than it should. That wasn’t a throwaway insult. That wasn’t just something to piss you off. That was a direct fucking hit, and Jungkook knows it.

“You know what the worst part is?” you whisper, each word soaked in absolute disgust. “You actually think you’re special.”

Jungkook’s expression shifts, and not in a dramatic, storming-off, throw-the-chair kind of way; he’s too practiced for that. But it’s there beneath the surface.

You see it, and you double down.

“Of course you think the world revolves around you,” You say, voice curling with disbelief. “You walk around like consequences don’t apply. Like you can do whatever the fuck you want and someone will be there to fix it. You’re not brilliant. You’re not clever. You’re just an overgrown man-child with too much power and zero idea what to do with it.”

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek deliberately like he’s trying to decide whether to bite back or bite harder.

“Oh, and you?” he says, voice dropping into that venom-laced register he saves for moments like this. “You’re just another girl in heels, pretending your job makes you interesting.”

Your blood is boiling, sure. Your hands are clenched so tightly you’re pretty sure your nails have left permanent dents in your skin. But you’ve had enough. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re unbearable,” He grits out, standing up to loom over you. You don’t back down, though.

“You’re the most insufferable man I’ve ever met.” You spit the sentence like you’re trying to scrape the taste of him off your tongue.

Jungkook lets out a short laugh that’s dry and humorless. You realize now you might be in serious trouble, with him being so close to you that you can smell his scent, can see every curve in his pink lips. It’s also not helping that when he’s standing like this in front of you, he practically towers over you and you can look right up into his darkened eyes. But you’ve done worse to more important men.

“You should be fucking thanking me,” Jungkook glares.

That’s the moment where your patience fractures like glass. A laugh explodes from your chest, the kind of sound that only comes when you’re so far past your limit that your body doesn’t know what else to do. You throw your hands in the air, exasperated, stunned, teetering on the edge of hysterical.

“Thanking you?” you repeat, incredulous. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me just clear my schedule so I can fall to my knees in eternal gratitude.”

He doesn’t blink. He watches you with that calmness, like he’s the victim here. You keep going, the rage pouring out unchecked now. “Thank you for what, Jungkook? For being a walking liability? For dragging the campaign into a scandal before we even hit global release? For making my job a nightmare?”

And then he says the sentence that knocks the wind out of you. The one that makes everything go suddenly, dangerously quiet. “This campaign is nothing without me.”

The words land like a slap. Your mouth parts, stunned at first. A full second passes before the heat rises to your face, before the fury starts buzzing in your limbs like electricity, before you really register what the fuck he just said.

Beneath all of it — the rage, the resentment, the sheer disbelief — it’s there. That horrible, humiliating ache lodged deep in your chest. Because god, you hate him. You hate the way he talks, the way he breathes, the way he stares at you like he’s not afraid of you. But what you hate more is the way you still want him, even now and even when he’s infuriating and reckless and dragging your hard work through the dirt, your body still betrays you. It aches in places you swore he couldn’t reach. It’s disgusting. It’s pathetic. And you’d rather die than let him see it.

You step in closer, close enough to smell the cologne on his collar. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, this wouldn’t be an argument; it’d be something else entirely. Something much worse.

“Is that what you think?” you whisper, voice cutting and low, trembling with rage you can’t contain.

His eyes flicker, uncertain for the first time.

“Fine,” you continue, sweetly now. Your voice dips into something syrupy, bitter enough to rot your teeth. “You want a thank you?”

“Thank you, Jungkook. Thank you for being the absolute worst celebrity I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. Thank you for the emotional whiplash, for reminding me every single day that talent doesn’t equal professionalism. Thank you for making my life a fucking nightmare. Really… thank you. “

Jungkook’s lips twitch, not in a smirk, not exactly, but not a smile either. It’s a little wicked. The kind of expression that says I know what I’m about to do, and I know you’re going to let me.

Then he leans in slightly, enough to make your breath pause and your spine lock straight. His voice drops into that low, dangerous place that always sets your nerves alight. “You are so fucking welcome.”

That’s really all it takes.

It’s like a match to gasoline. Like every insult and eye-roll and pointed glare was just foreplay for this exact moment.

And then he’s on you.

There’s no grace to it. No warm-up. No time to second-guess what the hell is happening. His mouth crashes into yours like it’s been building since the first time he pissed you off. His kiss isn’t sweet. It’s not poetic. It’s not some delicate, well-choreographed thing you’d find in a film scored by violins.

It’s a breaking point: his lips bruising yours, his tongue sliding in like he owns the right and claiming victory, like he’s waited too long to keep pretending he doesn’t want this as badly as you do.

And you do. God, you do.

Your back hits the edge of the table. His hands are already everywhere, one wrapped tight around your waist, the other gripping your jaw with just enough pressure to make your head spin. There’s a very real chance he’ll leave marks and an even more real part of you that wants him to.

This is so incredibly, epically stupid.

Anyone could walk by. Anyone could glance through the conference room glass and see you kissing Jeon Jungkook like he’s the only thing keeping your heart from flatlining. This is career suicide. This is the real scandal.

For a moment, you don’t care. You don’t care about the job or the risk or the headlines this could spark by morning.

Right now, you need this. You need him. You need the way his mouth drags against yours, hungry and punishing. You need the little sound he makes when you fist your hands into the collar of his shirt and yank him closer like you’re daring him to ruin you.

You need the way he tastes, like it’s the final word in every fight you’ve lost to him.

Your heart is hammering. Your skin’s on fire. And all you can think between the biting kisses, the ragged breaths, the way his teeth graze your bottom lip like he wants to keep a piece of you, is how badly you want more.

He knows, because the grip on your waist tightens like he’s trying to anchor you. His breathing’s uneven now, ragged against your cheek. His lips are red, swollen. He pulls back just a fraction to look at you.

The worst part — the part that makes you want to scream into the nearest cushion and maybe also sue him for emotional damages — is that this is his fault. All of it. Three nights ago, he told you to get off. Just like that.“Maybe you just need to get off.” So you did. Not with him, because you still had a shred of pride at the time, but alone, practically shaking. With one hand between your thighs and the other gripping your pillow. The whole time, you imagined him, his mouth, the way he’d sound telling you to let go, like it was an order, not a favor. You’d never cum so fast in your life.

Now your body’s not even pretending to be neutral. You want him. And honestly, you can’t even blame yourself anymore. What choice did you ever have?

His mouth is back on yours in an instant, hotter, rougher, like he’s trying to erase every sharp word you’ve ever thrown at him and replace it with this. Tongue, teeth, hands. It’s all-consuming.

His lips drop lower, dragging along the edge of your jaw. He bites once, hard enough to make your pulse stutter, then soothes it with the flat of his tongue, mouth trailing down your neck like he’s tasting a victory

The heat of his breath hits the column of your throat, and you shudder. Your hands scramble for something to hold onto, fingers gripping the edge of the table like that might ground you, like the cool surface might offset the fire currently crawling beneath your skin. But then his mouth finds the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he sucks lightly, enough pressure to make your knees go soft and a gasp slip from your lips before you can bite it back.

And that’s when reality sucker punches you.

This is a conference room.

A Calvin Klein conference room with glass walls and a brand reputation you’re quite literally paid to protect. These walls are not built for discretion. You could throw a stapler against them and still hear the gossip echo through the elevators.

You moan again and it’s the sound that yanks you back into yourself.

You break away from his mouth, breath ragged, pulse sprinting, trying to pull oxygen back into your brain and remember things like logic, boundaries, laws.

Your fists are knotted in the collar of his shirt as you breathe out, “Lock the fucking door. Close the blinds before someone sees.”

Jungkook freezes for a second. And then that smirk creeps back in like it never left, like you didn’t just try to be the voice of reason and immediately lose to your own body chemistry.

He leans in again, and his mouth grazes your ear, his tone low “What?” he whispers, a chuckle riding the syllable. “You don’t want anyone to see how desperate you are for me?”

Your breath hitches at that. You should be angry. You should throw him across the room and write him up for misconduct and file a strongly worded HR complaint with yourself.

But instead, your stomach flips. And his hand slides down your side, fingers digging in just tight enough to make you feel pinned in place.

“You don’t want anyone to see you thank me properly?” he murmurs, his mouth grazing the side of your neck again.

You hate that it lands. You hate the way heat immediately pools deep in your stomach, sharp and unrelenting, like your body has fully abandoned ship and left your brain behind with a middle finger and a “good luck.”

With every brain cell you have left, you know you should push him away. You should shut this whole thing down before it crosses a line so thick it might as well be in neon.

Instead, you let go of his shirt and he grins like he knows exactly what that means.

With a breathy exhale, he turns and strolls toward the door with that godforsaken confidence, the kind that makes you want to rip off his shirt and punch him in the face, preferably in that order. His movements are infuriatingly casual. You hear the click of the lock, sharp in the quiet room.

One by one, he draws the blinds closed, shielding the floor-to-ceiling windows from view. Not that there’s anyone left to see; It’s late and way past working hours. The only people left in this building are you and him.

By the time he turns back to you, the air feels different. It’s the kind that screams no take-backs.

When Jungkook starts walking toward you, you swear your lungs forget how to function. He’s looking at you like he already knows what’s about to happen and he’s already halfway through imagining exactly how you’ll fall apart for him.

Which, for all intents and purposes, is so annoying.

You hate how good he looks under fluorescent lighting. Hate the way he moves like a storm rolling in. Hate the way your stomach flips when his hands find your hips, fingers curling tight, tugging you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His lips press against yours again. His mouth is all heat and pressure, tongue pushing past your lips.You don’t stand a chance. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling, gripping as he groans into your mouth. His fingers drift lower, trailing down your waist with infuriating patience.

He smirks against your lips, no less. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs with the kind of voice that says I knew you’d break eventually, like this is some victory lap and not the exact thing he’s been secretly begging for just as much as you have.

His hands slide up your thighs now, slow and teasing, thumbs grazing the hem of your pencil skirt. He pushes the fabric inch by inch, taking his sweet time, fingers skimming bare skin like he’s trying to savor the reveal.

Your breath stutters. Jungkook, the ever observant bastard, notices.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm as he says, “Still waiting for that thank you, sweetheart.”

Your pulse jumps and he takes that as an invitation to move his fingers even higher. Your head tilts back against instinct as his mouth drags along your jaw.

“Come on,” he hums, voice silky. “Be polite.”

You’re already dizzy. Your body’s betraying you by the second, caving faster than you’d like to admit. Every part of you is screaming more, while your brain is just quietly short-circuiting in the background, waving a white flag.

But there’s still a sliver of fight left in you. You grit your teeth. “Fuck off.”

His hands shove your skirt the rest of the way up, no hesitation, fabric sliding around your waist like gravity’s no longer relevant. He steps back half a beat to look and the second his eyes drop, you see it.

His resolve flickers long enough for his jaw to tense, for his breath to catch ever so slightly at the sight of your black lace panties stretched against skin. It’s the tiniest shift but it’s there.

He clicks his tongue, a single, dismissive tsk like this is an error. A styling choice to be corrected. Like your underwear is somehow offensive to his sense of dominance and he’s going to rectify it immediately.

His fingers trace the curve of your hip, dragging over the band of lace like he’s thinking about doing something with it but not yet. He stays right there, just beneath the threshold of satisfaction, basking in the power of your suspended breath.

He leans in, “Only polite girls get what they want.”

Your pulse spikes so fast it makes you dizzy. His lips ghost along your jaw barely there, and then a sudden squeeze at your thigh

“That dirty mouth?” he murmurs, dragging his lips back to your ear, “It’s not getting you anywhere.”

His presence is overwhelming. He’s not just standing in front of you, he’s all over you. In your space, in your breath, in your bloodstream.

He’s not even doing that much and you’re still putty in his hands.

His fingers skim lower, brushing dangerously close, hovering over the heat between your thighs like he’s got nothing but time. He doesn’t dare touch you fully though.

“You feel that?” he whispers, his knuckles grazing across your clothed clit.

You hate the way your head tips back slightly. The way your lashes flutter without permission. The way your hips tilt forward subtly enough to betray you completely.

You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. “Oh, baby…”

His voice is smug as his thumb drags along the soaked strip of lace between your legs. His lips curl as he feels it, the proof of what he’s doing to you.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He’s just confirmed his own suspicions.

“Still telling me to fuck off, when you’re this wet for me?” His words go straight to your core.

You dig your nails into the glass table like it might keep you grounded, like maybe furniture will save your dignity when your body is this far gone. Every muscle is wound tight, clenching around nothing.

“Shut up,” you snap.

Or at least, you try to. Your voice cracks and it’s more of a gasp than a threat.

Jungkook laughs so sure of himself. The sound rolls over your skin. “That’s not how you thank me, sweetheart.”

His thumb slides down again, agonizingly slow, pressing right where you’re aching, but lightly to make you whimper.

Your hips jerk forward instinctively. He watches the way your body reacts, eyes locked on your every movement, cataloging every breath, every flinch, every subtle giveaway.

“C’mon,” he breathes, low and taunting as his fingers drag along the damp lace again. “Be polite. Say thank you.”

You want to kill him. You want to slap the look off his face, shove him into the wall, storm out of the room with your head high and your dignity intact.

Instead, you bite down on your bottom lip so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t split.

Your chest rises, sharp and fast, trying to hold yourself together while his fingers keep up their rhythm, the barely-there pressure that amount to nothing and everything all at once.

Every motion is deliberate, cruel in the way only Jungkook can manage. He drags his fingers over the soaked fabric with precision, keeping you right on the edge without ever tipping you over.

His dark eyes flick up to your face, full of wicked amusement. Your whole body trembles, thighs twitching with every gentle, useless stroke that doesn’t give you what you need.

It’s humiliating, honestly, how badly you want this. How badly you want him to just pull your panties aside and do something about it. You hate how soaked you are.

Jungkook chuckles. “Getting desperate, baby?”

His fingers press down slightly harder, dragging slow and steady over your clit, still over the lace, still refusing to give you the friction you’re dying for. It makes your breath sink into your chest, your thighs squeeze together, your pride snap a little further.

“No,” you force out, barely above a whisper. It’s pathetic. You know it, he knows it. You hate how weak it sounds, how shaky your voice is like your body’s begging even when your mouth is trying to hold the line.

And then — god help you — his thumb swipes over your clit, the lightest brush, and it shoots lightning straight up your spine.

Your head tilts back with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut. His lips brush your jaw, deceptively soft.

“Then why are you shaking?” he whispers. He already knows the answer and just wants to hear you admit it.

Your pride is threadbare. Your breathing’s a mess. Your thighs are trembling. Your self-control has officially packed a suitcase and left the building.

“P-please, Jungkook—” you gasp, voice shaking.

His cock twitches against the front of his jeans at the sound. Before you can even protest or say some other snarky remark, his fingers vanish.

You blink, stunned as he pulls back. He shakes his head slowly, like he’s the one let down here. “That’s not a thank you, sweetheart.”

You don’t even have time to react. One second you’re trying to remember how to breathe, and the next, he moves. Hands firm on your waist, grip unyielding, and then he lifts you like you weigh absolutely nothing. As if you’re just another object he’s decided he wants to rearrange, only this one’s got a mouth and an attitude and a skirt that’s now hiked halfway up her thighs. He places you right on top of the conference table and your breath catches.

Your heels skid against his jeans, scraping uselessly as you scramble to steady yourself. It’s humiliating how easily he manhandles you, how your pride takes a nosedive the second he steps between your legs and palms your knees wide like it’s the most obvious place they should be.

You’re caged in now. The position, however, seems to be a problem. A very large, very solid, very painful-to-ignore problem currently pressed against your cunt.

You grit your teeth, already seething, already spiraling, already half out of your mind with the unfairness of how badly you want this.

His head drops slightly as his tattooed fingers trail down again, grazing your inner thigh, slow and dangerous, until they find the damp lace between your legs. “Try again,” he whispers.

His thumb presses against your clit again but it’s still not enough. It’s slow, careful circles that make your hips twitch, make your legs shake.

His expression is ripped straight from your nightmares, or your fantasies. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“That’s more like it,” he says like you’ve just proven a point for him. Like your shaking thighs are a confession and he’s been waiting all week to drag them out of you.

His thumb keeps moving, slow and taunting. The pressure is maddening. It’s fire with no release, torture with rhythm.

He tuts softly, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in both of you.

“Such a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice thick like molasses. His fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, hooking in, finally doing what you’ve been silently begging him to do for what feels like years.

He pushes the fabric aside, and the air hits you immediately. You suck in a breath like this whole thing has suddenly crossed from fantasy into something far too real.

Jungkook’s fingers slide through your slick folds, unhurried, gathering every bit of your arousal on those infuriatingly elegant hands. He groans at the feeling, the sound being punched out of him.

And when he lifts his hand to the light, fingers coated, glistening, spreading them slightly to watch your wetness stretch between them, you want to die. You want to combust.

His eyes flick back to yours, “Look at this. Dripping all over my hands. You really are pathetic, huh?”

You whimper. It’s not a choice. It’s not even voluntary. It’s just your body breaking, and he feels it. Feels the way your thighs twitch again, the way you clench around absolutely nothing, the way you respond to every filthy word he feeds you like it’s gospel.

His thumb swipes the slick across your bottom lip, but he’s already following it with two fingers, pressing gently, not forcing.

“Here,” he says, “Be a good girl. Taste yourself.”

And maybe in another life, you’d slap his hand away. Maybe you’d laugh. Maybe you’d remind him who the fuck you are and who works for who in this brand partnership. But, right now? Right now, your body is burning. Your pride is unraveling. Your brain is static.

You part your lips slowly and his fingers slip inside. Your eyes flutter shut while your tongue swirls over them. You taste yourself, sweet and sharp. You suck, gentle at first, then harder, and Jungkook curses under his breath.

You feel him, thick and straining through his jeans, twitching with every movement of your mouth, every drag of your tongue.

“Fuck,” he whispers, watching you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

Jungkook’s grin spreads like wildfire as he slips his fingers from your mouth, glistening with your taste. Under the soft conference room lighting, they shimmer like proof. Evidence. The loss of your ego documented in high definition.

Those same fingers trail back down, dragging across your skin like he’s etching his name into you. He dips between your thighs again, gathering the mess you’ve already made for him and then he inserts one finger… then two.

“F-fuck—” the word stumbles out of your mouth, sharp and fractured.

Your entire body jolts, instinct tightening your grip on his shoulders like he’s the only thing tethering you to the present. His tattooed knuckles vanish inside you, filling you with such ease, the stretch making your eyes flutter.

“Messy little thing, aren’t you,” he murmurs, so clearly pleased with himself it makes you want to scream.

His gaze stays locked on yours as he starts to pump them, dragging along every nerve-ending like he’s studied the terrain. His fingers seek until they find that one devastating spot.

Your head falls back, a moan slipping past your lips before you can catch it. It’s the kind of sound that has no place in a room like this, in a room where you’ve scolded interns and charmed executives.

Now you’re perched on a table in your own damn conference room, gasping around his hand, writhing against his touch like some desperate cliché. Your skirt bunched at your waist and your voice a breathy mess. Every sound that leaves you is proof of just how far you’ve fallen.

“There it is,” he exhales, palm grinding against your clit just enough to make your hips shake.

The contact is almost too much. His other hand grips your waist to steady you. His eyes never leave your face.

“So damn needy,” he teases, leaning in until his mouth brushes yours, until you can feel every syllable fan across your lips. “What do you think they’d say if they saw you like this?”

Your whole body locks up. Your breath snags, your legs clamp tighter around his hand, thighs trembling at the very idea of someone walking in, of someone catching you sitting across a boardroom table with Jungkook’s fingers deep inside you.

“Oh,” he tuts, smug and molten, “you like that.”

His pace picks up, thrusts deeper now, fingers slick and unforgiving, dragging another desperate moan out of you. His rhythm is ruthless, his tone even more so.

“You like the thought of being caught,” he says, “You like knowing you’d just keep taking it. Letting me fuck you open while anyone could walk through that door.”

Your body is giving you away. Clenching, shaking, grinding down against his hand like you’re chasing something you swore you’d never need from him.

He can feel how close you are, how every muscle in your body has gone taut, trembling, ready to break.

And before you can protest, he stops, pulls back just slightly, fingers dragging out. You let out a sound you don’t even recognize — part whimper, part curse, all frustration. You chase what he keeps pulling away, and it’s humiliating how little shame your body has left. You’re supposed to be better than this. You’re supposed to have dignity.

“So fucking greedy,” he mutters, voice all lazy cruelty, thumb circling over your clit in the most obnoxiously light touch imaginable. “But not a single thank you? That’s rude, baby.”

Your eyes snap open, burning holes into his stupidly infuriating face. He’s enjoying this, no, thriving on it like every second you squirm just proves a point he’s been waiting to make.

“Go to hell,” you spit, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Just shut up and do it.”

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you didn’t just give him exactly what he wants. The sound is sharp and sends heat rolling through your spine in the worst way.

“There she is,” he says, and then his fingers enter you again and push deeper. He resumes the same slow, devastating rhythm that makes you want to scream and sob and slap him in the face all at once.

“That attitude’s going to be the death of you,” he shakes his head his other hand pins your thigh wide open. “Can’t follow the simplest instruction, can you?”

You glare, breath stuttering, thighs trembling around his wrist. You’re soaked. You’re twitchy. You’re seconds away from exploding and he’s still talking like this is some kind of training exercise.

“I don’t need to thank you for shit,” you grit out but your voice cracks halfway through.

“Sure you don’t,” he rolls his eyes, his fingers dragging out so painfully slow you swear your lungs stop working. He leaves you empty, throbbing, desperate.

He leans in, lips brushing your open mouth, barely there, like he’s daring you to beg. “Say it.”

The command lands like a slap. Your jaw tightens. Your pride hangs on by a thread. But his fingers curl again and your whole body clenches, bucking against him. His thumb presses harder now, rubbing tight, perfect circles. It’s torture. It’s heaven. It’s both.

“Say it,” he repeats, quieter this time, almost gentle. Which somehow makes it worse.

He doesn’t stop moving. He keeps pushing you closer, keeps working you with his long fingers like it’s some lesson in obedience and you’re failing miserably.

You crumble.

“T-thank you,” you gasp, barely audible, voice catching like it physically hurts to say it.

“There’s my girl,” Jungkook whispers, lips brushing yours. Fingers slam into you, hard and fast. Thumb relentless against your clit. His pace turns brutal in an instant, wringing every last shred of resistance from your body as he drags you straight to the edge.

He fucks you open with his fingers like he has a point to prove, and maybe he does. Maybe this whole thing is some twisted power play.

You’re clutching at his shoulders, his biceps, the table, anything that might ground you while your mouth flies open and your vision swims.

“Look at you,” he scoffs, voice ragged, fingers still thrusting deep and fast. “God, never seen you this out of control. “

You try to speak, try to say something sharp. Anything. But all that comes out is a gasp. Your head drops back and a string of breathless moans tumble from your mouth and you can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

“What?” Jungkook bites, fingers curling again, “No smartass comment now?”

His free hand grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to meet his. You look and feel like someone who’s been thoroughly, completely ruined.

“You were so mouthy earlier,” he taunts, lips brushing yours again, heat radiating between your bodies like static. “What the hell happened to that sharp little tongue?”

You really wish you had an answer.

A helpless sob punches out of your throat, your hips rolling into his palm like you’ve lost all motor control. It’s embarrassing. You should be embarrassed.

You’re too far gone to care, too high on the way he’s touching you to feel anything but that slippery, white-hot desperation boiling under your skin.

“Th-thank you,” you nearly scream, the words barely forming a shape. They’re not even yours. They feel stolen, ripped from someone else’s body and handed to him like a white flag.

Jungkook laughs, fingers slamming harder. His wrist is soaked with you, slick dripping down his knuckles as he fucks you with a pace that borders on brutal.

“That’s right, baby,” he groans, teeth clenched. His breath fans across your lips, hot and ragged. “Keep fucking thanking me.”

Your thighs start shaking. Like, really shaking. Not sexy trembling — it’s full-on, legs-aren’t-working, earthquake-mode collapse. His smirk is practically audible when he leans in closer, pressing his palm down just enough to keep you locked in place.

“Gonna cum for me?” he taunts cruelly. “Gonna soak my fucking hand like a good girl?”

“Y-yes,” you choke out, already unraveling. “Yes—please—fuck—”

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s the kind of orgasm that folds you in half, that knocks the air from your lungs, that crashes into you like a freight train with zero brakes.

You cry out as your entire body convulses. Your juices gush out of you, coating his fingers, dripping onto his wrist, soaking the polished conference table beneath you.

“Holy fuck,” Jungkook breathes, eyes wide, jaw slack as he watches you fall apart in real time. His fingers finally slow, dragging out your high but your chest is still heaving, mind blank, vision fuzzy.

Your hands move on autopilot, grabbing his jaw, dragging him down like you can’t bear another second without his mouth. Your lips crash into his, your breath still stuttering as you kiss him like he’s oxygen.

Jungkook groans into your mouth, his grip on your thighs tightening as his hands, still slick with you, glide up your sides. He doesn’t wipe them clean. He smears you into your own skin, marking you like a trophy.

You reach down between your bodies, fingers fumbling for his jeans like you’re possessed. Your breath mixes with his, frantic and desperate.

“Take them off,” you pant, yanking at the waistband. “Fucking take them off, Jungkook.”

“Bossy now, huh?” he teases, brushing his lips over yours as he bats your hands away with infuriating ease, long enough to shove his jeans down himself.

The zipper splits the silence like a gunshot.

Your panties? Gone. He doesn’t ease them off, doesn’t bother with delicacy. He hooks his fingers under the lace, yanks hard, and the fabric tears clean in half before sailing somewhere behind you like a flag of surrender. You’re too stunned to even flinch.

His jeans hit the floor and boxers follow. Towering over you, cock flushed and straining, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. He’s hard and you’re suddenly aware of just how empty you are without him.

You should stop. You know you should. This is a disaster. A mistake. An HR nightmare.

And then Jungkook smirks like the devil just handed him a keycard to your soul and those thoughts vanish.

His hands grip your thighs as he pushes them wider, spreading you open on the cold, polished surface of the Calvin Klein conference table like this is his personal altar.

“Better say thank you again,” he mutters condescendingly, as he lines himself up with the mess between your legs. “Might be your last chance to be polite.”

And like… objectively? You hate him. Right now… you hate yourself more.

The table is ice-cold against your bare skin, a jarring contrast to the way his body radiates heat between your thighs. His cock drags through your slick, hot and heavy and completely disrespectful, teasing your entrance and tapping against your clit like he’s knocking just to be rude.

A high-pitched moan escapes before you can clamp it down, and suddenly your hands are flying to his shoulders, gripping tight, nails digging in, like he might float away if you don’t anchor yourself to something solid.

“So fucking desperate,” he notes against your jaw, lips dragging across your skin like he’s trying to mark a trail. “You always get this needy when you’re about to beg?”

You want to tell him to shut up. You do. But then he nudges forward again, his cock just barely breaching your entrance, not even halfway in, and your thighs are already trembling like he’s got you wired to a detonator.

“You’re lucky I’m even giving you this,” he says, and… okay. You should slap him. Or yourself. Or whoever failed you in your formative years because what the fuck is happening right now.

Maybe your parents didn’t hug you enough. Maybe this is some long-buried trauma expressing itself through your complete inability to say no to a cocky k-pop idol who’s holding you open like a wishbone and acting like he’s doing you a favor.

But also… it’s been months. Months since you’ve been touched. Months since someone made you feel like this. Maybe ever since someone made you feel like this.

It doesn’t help that he’s so good at this. Infuriatingly, obscenely, life-ruiningly good.

He drags his cock along your folds again, spreading your arousal over his length, dragging it torturously slow over your clit just to feel your hips buck, just to hear that gasp fall from your lips.

“What’s missing?” he asks, fake innocence dripping from every syllable. “Hmm?”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip like he’s testing the weight of your silence. Like he knows your pride is the last thing standing between you and complete humiliation.

You know what he wants. You know what he’s waiting for yet your lips stay sealed. Your nails dig deeper into his skin. You hold on to your last shred of dignity like it’s going to save you from drowning even though you’re already in over your head.

“Fine,” he breathes, feigning disappointment as he presses forward, just the tip. “Guess you don’t want it that bad after all.”

That’s the moment your sanity packs a suitcase and bolts for the nearest emergency exit.

You grab his face and crash your mouth into his like you’re trying to shut him up with teeth. The kiss is messy, all heat and spit and pure, frantic need.

“Thank you,” you breathe into his mouth, unhinged, panting, kissing him again before he can gloat.

“Thank you,” again, more wrecked now, your body grinding up against him like your life depends on it. You’re trying to make him cave, to make him snap. Trying to ruin him the way he’s been systematically dismantling you.

Your hand slides between your bodies like muscle memory, wrapping around his cock for the first time, and…

“Oh my fucking god.”

The words fall out before you even process them.

He’s massive. Thick too. Your fingers don’t even fully meet around him. You blink, stunned, palm moving in slow strokes as you feel the weight of him, already leaking against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you say under your breath, more to yourself than anything.

Jungkook grins, so satisfied with himself and for one brief, fleeting second, you almost come to your senses.

His smirk returns with full force, his dark eyes blown wide, borderline unhinged as he watches you really see him. Watches the way your fingers tremble around his cock, the way your mouth goes slack like your brain is buffering under the weight of the moment.

“Yeah?” he breathes, tilting his head just slightly,“That mouth finally quieted down.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he’s twitching in your grip, thick and flushed and hot against your palm.

“Scared, sweetheart?”

Here’s the thing: you know he’s talking about his dick. You’ve gotten that much. Beyond that, though, you really should be scared. This is a terrible idea. Catastrophically bad. You could lose your job. Your reputation. Your sanity.

And yet here you are, stroking him faster like it’s a religious calling.

Your legs fall open wider and Jungkook kisses you like he’s claiming his prize, mouth slanted over yours, tongue dragging.

The second he slides in, your soul flatlines.

There’s no warning. No buildup. Just the full, devastating stretch of him splitting you open like you’ve never been touched before. He sinks in with ease, your slick dragging down his length like your body knew him. Like it had been waiting.

And holy shit, he’s huge. Your head drops back, mouth open in a silent gasp as your nails dig into his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself against the full-body shock of being filled to the hilt. It’s overwhelming. It’s incredible. It’s so good it feels wrong.

Jungkook moans as he watches himself disappear inside you. His jaw clenches, inked fingers bruising your waist as your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight enough to knock the wind out of both of you.

“Fucking hell,” he hisses, forehead dropping against yours as his cock throbs inside you, helpless against the heat of your body.

His eyes snap up to yours, and without a word, his hand shoots up, wraps around your throat, and squeezes. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispers, “All full of my cock.”

Your nails scrape down his back, thighs trembling as he pulls back slightly, enough to make you beg.

Then, without another word, as if he’s decided he’s done holding back too, he slams into you.

And the sound that tears from your throat? It’s not human.

He pounds into you, deep and unrelenting, each thrust angled to wreck you a little more than the last. You cry out, your whole body rocking with the force of it, your breath cutting out as your walls clamp around him, fluttering like you can’t decide if you’re ready to take this or not.

Spoiler: you’re not.

His grip on your throat tightens, not enough to hurt, but to hold, to remind you who’s in charge here.

The slick, wet sounds of your bodies meeting echo through the room, mixing your breathy moans, with his low, guttural groans. Filthy. Loud. Absolutely not workplace appropriate.

Your cream coats his cock, slicking down to the base, messy and hot and humiliating.

“Where’s that fucking mouth now?” Jungkook snarls, breath ragged as he watches your head tip back in surrender. “What happened to all that attitude, huh?”

You try. You really do.

But all that comes out is a shattered moan, your lips parting around a gasp as your eyes flutter open, dazed and glassy.

“Nothing to say now?” he pants, his hold flexing around your throat, his hips snapping forward like punishment. “So fucking mouthy before�� so bitchy.”

Your nails dig into his arm now, clutching anything to survive the relentless drag of his cock inside you. You’re soaking the table. You’re making a mess of yourself.

His other hand grips your thigh, pinning it wide, forcing you to take every inch of him, again and again and again.

You let out something between a gasp and a sob, a high, broken sound that is dragged from your throat as your muscles twitch with every devastating thrust. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

The drag of his cock inside you.

The pressure of his hand tightening around your throat.

The voice in your head screaming what the fuck are you doing while your body clings to him like it would rather die than let this end.

“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he taunts, eyes gleaming, lips cut in a grin so sharp it could slice you clean in half.

Your hands clutch at his wrist like you’re trying to stop him but the truth is more humiliating than that. You want more.

“Say it,” he growls, voice hoarse, wild, like he’s half a second away from breaking himself. “Say how bad you needed to get fucked like this.”

You literally can’t speak — and you wish he would understand this before asking you to say more things — but you try, lips parting, throat working around the words.

“Fucking thank me for this cock,” he snarls, each word a vicious command, each syllable punctuated by a brutal snap of his hips that knocks the breath from your lungs.

You’re gasping, moaning, barely holding onto coherence as he drives into you, stretching you so full it feels like your body is being taken apart from the inside.

“Th-thank you,” you whimper, the words stuttering out of you, barely a whisper. You hate how easily you say it, how naturally it slips from your tongue. At this point, you do mean it though. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s obliteration. It’s ego-shattering, soul-rearranging ruin, and you’re giving in with open arms.

Jungkook groans, his eyes squeezing shut for a second as your walls clench around him, squeezing so tight his rhythm falters, hips stuttering as a curse slips from his lips.

Then he’s moving again, faster, rougher, desperate in a way that makes your stomach flip. One hand drags down your stomach, the other grabs the collar of your blouse and rips. Buttons go flying. Fabric splits.

And suddenly you’re bare beneath him, chest heaving, breasts spilling out like a reward he’s been waiting to collect.

“Fucking hell,” he bites his lip ring, eyes darkening.

His palms are rough, fingers greedy. He grabs your breasts like he’s starved, squeezing, rolling your nipples between his thumbs until your back arches, your body chasing his touch.

He slams you flat onto your back, the cool glass of the conference table slapping against your skin like a punishment. The temperature sends a jolt through you, makes you arch up into him, makes your breath catch in your throat.

He doesn’t stop or give you a second to process. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open wide, and before you can regain your breathing patterns, he’s already hiking one leg up, hooking it over the thick band of muscle in his tattooed forearm. The shift tilts your hips and the second he thrusts back in, your entire nervous system stops working.

You scream. Not a cute sound. Not a porn sound. It’s raw.. It’s the kind of noise that rips out of you when someone hits a part of you you didn’t even know could feel.

“Holy fuck,” you sob, fingers clawing at the glass beneath you, nails skittering uselessly against the smooth surface. There’s nothing to hold onto. No leverage. Just the dizzying rhythm of his cock dragging in and out, in and out, too deep, too good, too much.

Jungkook groans low in his throat, head dropping, dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches himself disappear into you, thick and soaked in everything you’ve already given him. Your cream is everywhere.

“That’s it,” he grits out, his voice wrecked and strained, every muscle in his body flexed, straining with restraint. “That’s my girl.”

And all you can do is say the only thing left in your vocabulary.

“Thank you… thank you, Jungkook—” the words tumble out in gasping fragments, broken between moans, between thrusts, between the feeling of him absolutely ruining what little control you thought you had left.

“Yeah?” he pants, reaching up to grab your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, forcing you to look at him even though your eyes are already half-rolled and glassy. “That’s all you can say now, huh?”

You nod, barely, because clearly speaking is no longer a skill you possess. And it makes him laugh as he pushes your leg higher, spreading you wider.

His rhythm snaps into something faster now, his hips slamming into yours with a pace that feels like it should knock the table off its legs. He’s so deep. So deep you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.

God, he looks so good like this. Face flushed. Veins in his neck standing out. Tattoos flexing. Sweat dripping down his chest as his abs tighten with every brutal thrust. You want to kiss him. You want to claw at him. You want to cry.

“You were such a bitch to me,” he grits out, eyes locked on yours, voice pure venomous lust. “Thought you were untouchable.”

You would’ve snapped back. Any other time. Any other moment. But then he slams into you again, sharp and sudden, and the breath is knocked right out of your lungs, your hands flailing for anything.

“And now look at you,” he spits, voice dropping, almost fond in how cruel it is. “Just a pathetic little slut for my cock.”

This is exactly how you imagined it three nights ago. When you were alone in that hotel bed, hand between your thighs, chasing the memory of his voice, the feel of his breath on your skin. You pictured this exact stretch, this rhythm, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, or, well, into the conference table. Somehow, it’s better. It’s so much fucking better than anything your desperate, horny little brain had managed to conjure. Because of course he’s good at this. Of course he’s the kind of infuriating, smug fucker who can read your body like it’s his native language. Every thrust, every snap of his hips, every filthy word slipping past his lips feels custom-built to ruin you.

You whimper pathetically, your nails carving down the ridges of his forearms as your whole body trembles beneath him, too far gone to pretend you’re still in control. Your hips jerk up to meet every punishing thrust, desperate for more even as your brain screams that this is a bad idea, a terrible idea, that you should still have a shred of self-respect left.

You don’t, and it gets worse every time he opens his mouth.

Because of course his filthy, cruel little comments only make the fire in your gut burn hotter. Every time he mocks you, your core clenches like your body’s trying to wring the arrogance out of him.

“F-fuck you—” you manage to get out, voice wrecked and thin, but even you can hear the edge of a moan tangled in the syllables.

“Already doing that, sweetheart,” he pants, his grin stretched.

His thumb finds your clit, pressing hard, rubbing little circles that send lightning up your spine, and your back arches clean off the table like he’s shocked you straight out of your body.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, like he’s not the one actively rearranging your internal organs. “Thought you were tough. Thought you could take it.”

His thrusts pick up speed, slamming into you with relentless force, his cock dragging over every hypersensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where you’re about to break.

“You were so fucking loud earlier,” he grits out, eyes burning, “What happened to that mouth, baby?”

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear, hips slamming into yours like he’s trying to knock the voice back into you. “Use it,” he snarls. “Come on. Say something.”

But you can’t. You literally cannot form a single syllable. Your body is locking up, every muscle coiling tight as your release barrels toward you like a goddamn freight train. All that comes out is a high, ragged keening sound, your mouth hanging open, your nails scraping down his arms, your thighs quaking around his waist as he fucks you toward the edge.

He feels the way you start to squeeze him as if your body’s trying to pull him deeper, hold him in place, never let him go.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, voice cracking, eyes slamming shut as your body milks him. “F-fuck, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

Your moans dissolve into pure nonsense, half-sobs, half-praise, all desperation, as the pressure builds unbearably.

And somewhere, in the scrambled static of your brain, one final thought surfaces: He’s going to ruin you for everyone else and you’re going to let him.

“Jungkook, fuck, please,” you gasp, voice so raw you barely recognize it as your own.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice gravel-rough, “This is what you fucking wanted, huh?”

Yes. Yes. This is exactly what you wanted, what you fantasized about with your fingers buried between your legs three nights ago while your rational brain screamed at you to stop.

His thumb drops to your clit again, pressing down hard, dragging tight, vicious circles that send electric shocks shooting up your spine. You cry out loudly, the sound ricocheting off glass walls that have seen way too much.

“You wanted me to fuck you like this,” he growls, teeth gritted as he watches the way your breasts bounce with every punishing thrust. “Wanted me to ruin you, didn’t you? Wanted to act like — fuck — a fucking brat just so I’d fuck you stupid.”

You’d deny it if you could, really. But he slams into you again and all that comes out is another broken moan as your nails carve into his arms, your brain gone static.

“Say it,” he snarls, hand gripping your face now, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his. “Fucking say it.”

“I—” you gasp, lips trembling. “I wanted it. Fuck, I wanted your cock so fucking bad.”

That’s what breaks him. Jungkook lets out the filthiest groan you’ve ever heard from a man as his whole body locks up for a moment, abs tightening, hips faltering like he’s trying not to lose it right then and there.

“F-fuck, baby,” he grits out, every muscle straining, “Be a good girl, come on. Cum for me.”

God, you do.

Your body shatters, legs locking around his waist, your release crashing over you so hard you forget your own name. You sob as your walls tighten around him, trying to drag him under with you.

“Oh my fucking god,” you cry, because there’s no other vernacular for what this is. Every nerve-ending is on fire, your skin tingling, your mind white-noise and wreckage.

Jungkook groans like it’s being torn from somewhere inside his chest and you feel his cock twitch, his rhythm faltering.

“F-fuck, fuck, baby,” Jungkook pants, his whole body jerking with the effort of holding back. You feel the twitch of him inside you and then suddenly he’s pulling out, just in time, hand flying to his cock as his other arm braces above you.

“Shit, oh, god [Y/N],” he groans. His brows knit together, eyes slamming shut as his release hits him hard, stroking himself feverishly as hot, slick ropes of cum spill across your stomach.

His thighs tremble, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts, strokes growing slower as he rides it out.

He’s so fucking pretty while he does it, like offensively pretty.

Like who the hell gave him permission to look like that while literally unraveling over you? Chest flushed, skin glowing, lips parted just enough to show his teeth as he groans your name like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. His sweat-slick hair falls into his eyes and you hate him for being this hot, for wrecking you and somehow looking like that while doing it.

You don’t know if it’s the orgasm or the emotional damage but your brain stops working a little.

Jesus Christ. You need therapy. Or an exorcism. Both at the same time probably.

For a second, the room is just breathing. Yours and his, probably fogging up the glass.

Jungkook finally exhales and when he looks down and sees the wreckage — you, splayed out and trembling, his cum smeared across your stomach like a signature — he grins.

“Such a fucking mess,” he notes, tone hoarse as his fingers swipe through the creamy trail across your stomach and smears it like an artist admiring his work.

Your body twitches again, a soft aftershock rippling through you, and he notices. His eyes drop to your still-quivering thighs, the way your breath catches, the way you’re still coming down like he’s rewired you from the inside out.

His tongue swipes over his lip ring. He tilts his head like he’s deciding whether to keep going or let you recover. Either way, you’re doomed.

Instead, he settles on, “You really should thank me for this one too, baby.”

And all you can do is lie there, half-naked on a conference table, covered in cum, dignity somewhere on the floor next to your ripped panties, and wonder how the fuck this became your life.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights @travelgurrl @softhaes @bexxs

#jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook #jungkook smut #jeon jeongguk #bts #bts x reader #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x you #jjk #jjk x reader

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dumbbitchgalore · 11 months ago

Text

tf141 hanging out together and finding out that old man!Price has a girlfriend 💫

The crowded pub bustles with the commontion of drunkards of varying degrees. Some slightly tipsy while others have decided to forgo their pants in the name of the King.

And then there's a group of men occupying a table at the corner of the pub. Simon with his balaclava on, Kyle with a cigarette between his fingers savouring the arcid flavour and Johnny ogling some girls on the other side of the pub.

All that was left was John, who makes his way to the table with four pints of beer. He sits down at the table with a grunt as he passes each on of the boys a glass. They all start chatting and catching up about everything's thats happened after Price's retirement.

Johnny begins to bitch and whine about the new captain saying how uptight he was critising everything the squad does that John would've probably turned a blind eye to.

John chuckles slightly, listening to them all talk about what's is going on with the taskforce. Despite the smile on his face, there is a bitter resentment inside of him, gnawing at him.

Useless, useless, useless

He takes a swig of his drink hoping that it'll calm his worries down. And lo and behold he receives a call from you, his baby. He smiles to himself and picks up the phone.

"Hey birdie, doing okay by yourself at home?" He asks softly.

That one sentence caught the attention of the other boys as they give each other quizzical looks. Who the hell could their former captain be talking to?

His mother, maybe his sisters? Nah, he wouldn't call any other birdie.

They listen to John's gravelly voice and breathy laughs as he talks to the mystery person on the phone.

What felt like hours to the boys and a few fleeting seconds for John, he hangs up and faces the group. He raises an eyebrow when he sees their faces contorted into expressions of confusion and curiosity.

"What?" John asks slightly defensively

"Who's the birdie, Captain?" Johnny asks with a tooth grin.

John shakes his head, "my girlfriend." he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Their jaws drop to the floor. Shocked would be an understatement as to what they were feeling and thinking right now.

"You sure it's not schizophrenia, sir?" Kyle asks.

John huffs in annoyance. What the hell? Couldn't they just accept that John finally had someone in his life. A perfect little doll who patiently waits for him at home.

They all start to laugh obnoxiously, barking and howling as if they were witnessing a circus show. And John's irritation grew tenfold and he huffs a sigh of annoyance.

"Oi captain, why don't you show us a picture of your birdie and then maybe we'll believe ya. Or well just keep thinking that the sarin gas is still in your system." Simon says, followed by a cackle.

John rolls his eyes and opens his photo gallery and shows the trio a photo of you and him. The picture is of the two of you in bed, with you resting your head on his shoulder with a smile on your face as John is still fast asleep. Evidence of the previous night's lustful tendancies still apparent on both of them.

This time their jaws drop for certain as the tangible evidence is placed in front of them. You're beautiful, and that fucked-out, post orgasm face is something else. This isn't fair. How did Price get blessed with a beauty such as yourself.

Soap scowls and scoffs looking away and crossing his arms in annoyance. While Kyle gushes about how lucky Price his to hide his jealously rearing its ugly head. And simon simply stares at the photo with a discerning expression on his face.

John smiply smiles, his ego fuelled and his pride sky high.

"Well boys, I gotta get back to my doll. Maybe next time I'll bring her along." He exits the pub, leaving the boys all confused and jealous.

#john price #john price cod #john price smut #john price x reader #captain john #cod smut #tf 141 #tf141 smut #captain price #john price x you #old man!price #ri's rants

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hedwig221b · 2 months ago

Note

Do you have any Sterek fic recs where Stiles either is stuck as or can transform into an animal? And choosing Derek as his “person”?

(My favourite would be a Stiles as a cat but there are so many animals with awesome potential)

Hi! I found these ones

the amber of the moment by redhoodedwolf

Ever since he was eight years old, Stiles had been running. Fate decided it was time to stop.

The Undisclosed by Taila_Tai

For once the pack doesn't panic when a new hunter arrives. The gleefully sadistic man has labelled himself a collector of all things rare in the supernatural world and wants one of the rarest creatures; a werefox. Content that the pack is safe, the wolves focus on why their human member is acting so strange, ignoring the fact that Stiles only started once learning who the man wanted…

Little pitchers have big ears! by wanderseeing

When Scott asked him last night if Stiles could stay at Derek’s house while the rest of the pack went off to find the feral werefox that bit his best friend, Derek took one look at the tiny animal cradled in Scott’s arms and thought: ‘That’s cute.’ And then, because he’s a moron, he also opened his mouth and said: “Okay.” AKA I spent too much time watching videos of fennec foxes on youtube and I just had to make write a fic about it. Sterek is there, but only if you tilt you head at a 45-degree angle and squint really hard.

Adventures in Kitten Therapy by InkyWings

When life in Beacon Hills gets you down, what you really need is some kitten therapy. The question is who needs it more, Derek or Stiles? Stiles gets turned into a kitten, lost and scared he winds up at Derek Hale's loft. Derek's not used to kittens appealing to him for help, but he can't help but find this one kinda cute…

Shifted by LLAP115, Wolfspurr

Of all the stupid things he’s ever done, Stiles is pretty sure this one takes the record, but it’s like a reflex that he just can’t stop. As soon as he sees the witch turn to face Derek, hand raised in Derek’s direction, he just jumps. There’s no thought process. No planning. Just an instinctual reaction that possibly reveals more about Stiles than he’s really willing to reflect on right now. The clearing echoes with a crash of noise and a blinding flash of white light. For a moment it seems as though the witch has called lightning from the sky, and Stiles only has a moment to realize that this is how he dies.

Only You Can Calm Me Down by AMatchInWater

Stiles turns into a fox after the Nogitsune leaves him and he thinks that Derek is his Alpha and not Scott. With Derek having left for South America with Cora, Stiles feels separated from not only his pack but his mate and goes feral. Of course Derek immediately comes back when the sheriff calls him and demands he come fix Stiles. It isn't until he's back in Beacon Hills that he sees just what he needs to fix.

At Home Under the Moon bywanderingeyre

There is no doubt in Derek’s mind that this fox is alone, in trouble, and needs to come home with them, with him. Derek takes a risk and lets his wolf go, calling his human side forward as he shifts. The fox barks in alarm and scrambles back to the bushes. Derek kneels and holds his hands out palm up. Derek pushes power into the next words and lets his eyes go red. “I promise. You’re safe. No one will hurt you.”

I'm Grumpy, He's Derpy by LordHarmony

The cat jumps onto the back of the couch, carefully making it’s way towards Derek, only to lose it’s footing halfway across and tumble with an undignified yowl back to the floor. Oh god, Derek thinks. It’s one of those cats.

To Me, You're Purrfect by Beautiful_noise

The original prompt idea was by captain-snark and went like this: "There are many a fic where Derek is unknowingly stuck in his wolf form and taken care of by Stiles but i really want fic where stiles accidentally turns himself into a cat and goes to Derek cos he thinks Derek might recognize him..being a wolf and all. Except, Derek does not. But also Derek is a secret cat person. And tells Stiles he’s gorgeous as he pets him, because Stiles would be a totally gorgeous cat. All lean with big paws and huge amber eyes and a fuzzy white tummy." And that's basically what this is.

He Must Be Out of Food by lipah

Stiles gets turned into a normal house cat by a witch and Derek takes care of him until they can fix it.

Cat-astrophe (Not really) by x_Lazart_x

When Stiles accidentally gets turned into a cat, he didn't expect to get stuck staying with Derek. He certainly didn't think he would end up enjoying it. Let alone missing the alpha when he was human again.

Finding Home by MadMim, Renmackree

When Stiles is kidnapped by witches, the pack is able to find the dead witches but no Stiles. The pack want to grieve and move on but Derek and John can’t stop looking until Stiles is found. All their search yields in a small fox. A fox who Derek can’t help bonding with, that only helps bring him and John closer. But the Stiles shape hole still haunts them both.

Consequences Of Fighting Witches by MichelleDWinchester

Stiles was well used to things that go bump in the night, I mean come on he lived in Beacon Hills after all. So when a Witch comes to town and starts causing mayhem, Stiles charges in no holds barred as per usual with no regard for his own safety. This time however there will be consequences for such bravery that will impact not just him but the entire Pack too. Stiles will soon be forced to re-examine his perspective following a climatic night that will change his life forever.

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floylia · 10 months ago

Text

ELYSIAN ♫

18. Am I wrong? ✎

“So my manager leaked my information.” It’s not a question anymore.

Scara nods apologetically as if he was at fault, eyes gleaming with genuine sincerity. This is the third time, he’s been vulnerable with you. He guides you up the cobblestone path, leading you closer to the Estate’s courtyard. The sun has already grazed its goodbye, only the moon rests above, gleaming at you and Scara. The darkness along the trees, shrubs, and boulders around the garden is eerie but something about his presence soothes your worries—something about his rare smile, hushed voice, and messy hair.

Perhaps it’s everything about him.

You pause in your tracks, watching over the waves on the beach—hands on the wooden fences standing around the courtyard, “Do you think they’ll believe me?”

“They’ll believe you once you tell your side.”

Doubt lingers, “What if they don’t?”

“Then they’re all fuck heads with no hobbies,” He swerves his head, now facing you with narrow eyes, and brows pulled together, “It’s stupid, how some of them graduated with degrees but have no basic sense of empathy or respect. They’re all entitled, gullible, and hypocritical assholes who use every opportunity to deflect their insecurities on others. It’s a crazy world we live in.”

The scowl on his face is almost laughable—how angry at the world he is on your behalf. You take note of Scara's wrath, experiencing it is not for the weak. Although, you don’t need to worry. His patience for you seems limitless.

“I can’t believe Jean lets you handle your social media accounts. You have no filter.”

He scoffs, “She doesn’t, but I find my way. They have to change the password every other week or else I might be permanently banned on every platform.”

You chuckle at his smug expression, “I want your confidence.”

“You already have it, you just need to use it.”

You avoid his gaze, “You sure do have a lot of faith in me.”

“Because I believe in you.”

For how long? You heard those same words before and they never kept their promises. Your agency, your manager. It was blind trust. Funny how life works.

“You blindly trusted me.”

You didn’t mean to say that. But it can’t be helped. What if one day you disappoint him? Will he leave too, like your manager? Or your fans?

“I knew you wouldn’t do that.”

No he didn’t. What did he know?

“There’s always a possibility—“

“But you didn’t and that’s what matters,” He sighs before running a hand through his hair, “Am I wrong for trusting you?”

You shake your head in guilt, realizing you let your doubts slip. Overthinking kills the mood, “It’s just that—“

“Am I wrong for wanting to be with you?” His voice softened.

You squint your eyes, unsure of what he means. You open your mouth to say something, anything to fill the silence, but nothing comes out.

So he inches forward, his left hand rests on your cheek, the other latches down to your waist, gentle and warm—you lean in to his touch, “Is it wrong to be this close?”

“No but—“

“For once please,” He sounds desperate, “Fuck what they think, focus on me and you. They can all go to hell.”

“So tell me: Is it wrong to need you at every moment?”

Once again you shake your head, this time with no interruptions.

“Is it wrong to be with you? To wake up every morning knowing I’m yours—knowing I can flirt shamelessly without doubting your feelings? Knowing I can write songs about you without hiding my love. Knowing I can feed you my favorite dishes without asking: am I doing too much? Or buy you things that remind me of you because not a single day goes by without your presence in my fucked up head.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes. Everything is blurry but your gaze remains on Scara. Only him, because it has always been him.

“Am I wrong for feeling this way?” He whispers softly—so gentle that you want to apologize for trying to push him away.

You wrap your arms around his neck, “Kiss me.”

“Can I really?”

“Please.”

He does.

He does like his life depends on it.

Notes:

im on vacation but nothing will stop me from writing 😃

sorry for grammatical errors or spelling mistakes

Synopsis: After 7 years of enduring the media’s relentless pursuit of painting you as a villain, you’re forced to go through an indefinite hiatus with a tainted reputation on your head. However, just when you thought your career was over, a certain 5WIRL member wants you to feature on his solo career. Surely, this won’t affect your reputation once more, would it?

Scaramouche x fem!reader

masterlist | previous | next

Taglist (open!): @aruatsu @magicalink @featuredtofu @scarasbaby @veekoko @scaranthropy @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 @vernith @thystarsshine @lily-lmao @lovemari @mellowberrie @kunikuzushis-darling @skyoverkill1 @alatusorrow @kukikoooo @kyon-cherri @keiiqq @tzuw1ce @xiaossocksniffer @kaitfae @infinitetrashbag @lvnalxve @lovelypadisarah @ulquiorraswife @sketcheeee @atyour-kitchencounter @pirate-of-the-dark-seas @neiiuna @sn1perz @kazioli @inelenastyle @hearts4shu @wisheslost @Kazeyozuha @kazumiku @eutopiastar @chemiro @bananasquash @mujiwuji @danhenglovebot @cremesluv @boomie-123 @kookiibun @help-whatdoimakemyusername @vavrin @beaniedoodz @misterpoofin @justpeachyteastea @one-and-only-tay @peaceindreams @strxwberryfetish @shutingstar @projectsfantasy @quacking-simp @morgyyyyyyy @cante-lope @k-cris

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kaz-dekadent · 11 days ago

Text

star boy, oh mine 1

[PRAGUE 1993] [COMING SOON] [COMING SOON] | [masterlist]

viktor x gn!rockstar reader

tw // smoking, alcohol, subtextual mentions of sa, cussing

cw: they/them pronouns for reader, viktor-centric, czech viktor, vik has a last name, jayce, vi and jinx are here too, 90s au, reader is cocky, flirty and a bit of a rube, caitvi in the subtext, author is attempting to be funny, power dynamics (fan x idol), unplanned angst, i wrote songs for this [smut: sub top!vik, darcyphilia, hickeys, praise, anal, aftercare, reader is drunk]

summary: after a concert to celebrate getting a degree, viktor dvořák catches the attention of his idol and makes an irresponsible decision that will forever reposition the constellations in his heart.

note: it has some funny lines so don't read it just for smut. (i choked on water writing one of these lines.)

5.9k words

PRAGUE, 1993

„These standing rooms were a mistake,” Viktor grumbled, shifting from his weaker leg. He could feel the music in his bones, but everything, everything was stopping him from enjoying the concert.

He just got his doctorate in astronomy, was about to make a scientific breakthrough and right now you, his idol and the vocalist of the independent rock band – Y/N & The Sisters of Discordance – were performing on a scene just before him.

He should be on cloud nine. But in reality he was in pain and annoyed at people covering his view, having nowhere to sit, while his leg was giving him a bad time, and the smell of other people’s sweat tortured his nose. At least Jayce was shielding him from being crushed.

“Really?” Jayce looked down at him. “We can see everything!”

“You can, Jayce. Only thing I see is the back of this guy in front of me.” He complained. “And my leg hurts.”

“I can help it.”

Viktor felt Jayce’s hands lifting him up and suddenly he was the highest of all people in these standing rooms. As high as the moon itself, maybe. His friend carried him piggyback. And he could see everything. He laid his eyes on you, singing with your whole throat, as your fingers pulled the strings of your guitar.

At the back, Vi was hitting the drums, and Jinx was pulling the strings of her bass. But his enraptured vision made him see you and only you.

As you did a riff, Viktor’s heart stopped. You were mesmerizing, your voice, piercing through the speakers, was awakening the audience, making them cheer, put their hands up and sing along with their intoxicated voices. You blinded him like the sun. And he could feel everyone’s attention pointing onto the small, quiet scientist risen above everyone else’s heads.

Your eyes converged with his and he gripped his cane tighter. You smiled at him and he thought he was about to fall.

***

After you and your band left the stage, the fans started dispersing from the club. Their drunken shouts and screams so loud he just wanted to gag all these people. When there was finally some space, Viktor got back on the ground. But fuck… He was still able to feel the hot air filing him inside. Still able to feel your gazes merging like a lunar eclipse.

“Thank you, Jayce.” He breathed. “Y/N looked me in the eyes.”

“You think they will remember you?”

“Don’t be delusional. They won’t.” He put his cane forward, heading to the exit from the club.

“They will. You know, mom got me a backstage pass.” Jayce smiled.

Viktor didn’t know what to say. He just went with Jayce to the backstage, through the corridors painted with unevenly spread paint, with one colour for upper half and other for the lower. He peeked through the door. You were giving an interview to a journalist from a local newspaper, with a camera before your face.

The rock magazines would soon sprout out all these headlines: Y/N L/N, the unknown lyrical genius?, or Y/N & The Sisters of Discordance – new rising star or a total failure?

“Tell us, Y/N, how do you see the future of your band?” the journalist asked.

“Do I have to be honest? If yes, then without me.”

Viktor pulled onto Jayce’s flannel shirt. He felt his eyes opening, and saw his knuckles whitening, while gripping the material.

“Listen.” He told him.

You continued what you were saying.

“Or just with another songwriter. I’m losing inspiration. Guess I just have to find a muse.” You said with a chuckle.

Your eyes laid on Viktor. Again, now harder. As you were saying the word muse. His body lit up, about to implode or explode, turn him into a supernova.

“Okay, end the interviews.” You ordered. “Everyone, please go.”

“I haven’t finished mine yet!” Jinx shouted.

“Y/N, you can’t just…” Vi mumbled with concern in her voice. She gave the journalist a compassionate look. “Whatever…”

"Okay, you two can stay, but hurry up," you said.

What an audacity.

And everyone simply started leaving. Viktor headed to the exit, too. Even if he wanted to stay for a minute. This rocker’s voice contains something, he was certain. The chance of this silly idea coming true evaporated. He sighed.

“Not you, cane boy!”

He curled up.

You must be talking about him. Yes, this insolent rocker mesmerises people with their voice. He wanted to go. He wanted to stay. He wanted to leave. He wanted you to say a word to him. He wanted- He…

Fuck.

“Me?” He asked. No, he squeaked. His voice was annoyingly high, so high it drowned out his intelligence, the thing he mesmerised you by in his stupid dreams. He sounded so pathetic in front of his musical deity.

“Who else here has a cane?” You asked with a confident smile, leaning on the chair you were sitting on.

Viktor bit his lip. Journalists walked past him and Jayce, who then shoved him into the room. He held onto his cane till his knuckles became even whiter. He wanted to hit his friend with it so, so bad it was ridiculous. You stood up from your chair, smiling, and he felt his cheeks, and especially his nose and his ears turning red.

You reached your hand to him. Viktor was shaking. You were real. Persona, he saw only on posters, rock magazines, once on MTV at Jayce’s house when they were playing more niche bands in the middle of the night, and just a minute ago, on stage. Made of flesh and bone, breathing air, looking at him. He shook your hand back. And you were real. Real, with hands that warmed his cold skin and a smile that narcotised his star-filled brain.

“You must have a backstage pass.”

And he couldn’t respond. How do you say it in English? He couldn’t even in his native Czech. He just squeaked.

“He knows English!” Jayce shouted and Viktor wanted to slap him. “He’s just shy!”

“Jayce…”

“Don’t be shy, I don’t bite.” You smirked. “Tell, me, what’s your name?”

“It’s Viktor. Viktor Dvořák.”

“Viktor Dvořák… What a pretty name.”

“Doctor Viktor Dvořák!” Jayce walked into the room, then hugged him over his shoulder with his big bicep. “He recently got a doctorate!”

“Oh really? In what?”

“In astronomy.” He said quietly, hoping you won’t pay attention to his thick accent. “I am… looking at pulsars and…” He stopped, trying to find words in the foreign language.

“You know, you can tell me about your research in the hotel room.” You joked, looking at him. It seemed to him like your eyes contained unspoken indecency, that gave him shivers. Your vision suddenly purified. “Do you guys want an autograph?”

“Indeed.” Viktor mumbled. This risqué idea seemed weirdly alluring.

Now, he wanted to slap himself.

“Sure!” Jayce took off his flannel, exposing his back and broad shoulders to you. You took out an indelible marker and painted your autograph on the white material of his shirt.

“I talk… I was talking um… hotel rooms.” A quiet voice escaped Viktor’s lips.

You laughed and stroked his shoulder. He trembled at your touch, still unable to believe he was meeting his idol in person. He couldn’t stop monitoring himself: the way he held his free hand and his cane, the way he smiled, the way words went out of his mouth. And he couldn’t hide that accent.

“And I was joking.” You replied, then smirked. “Unless...”

Viktor knew he was all red. Knew that if he opens his mouth, nothing coherent will come out. Jayce yanked him to the corner of the room and gripped his shoulders.

“Vik! This is hella irresponsible!” He shouted, whispering. “You will…”

“I know what I’m doing, Jayce.”

“So?” You asked.

“I’m going.”

“Viktor, for God’s sake!”

That’s exactly what he wanted to yell at himself.

You grabbed the material of his shirt, like you wanted to take him somewhere. Please, be it this fucking hotel room.

Jayce pouted.

“Viktor! You are going to a hotel with them while I have nowhere to stay!” He exclaimed. “We were supposed to get back to Ostrava right after the concert!”

You looked at Jayce, then at the bassist.

“Hey, Vi! Will you find him a place to stay?” You asked her and she looked up from the guitar she was tuning. “Unless you two have to necessarily be in Ostrava tomorrow…” You said to them.

“Why me?” She asked.

“Please, you’re good at these things.”

“Well… okay. Come with me, big boy.”

“I’ll get you back at 10 o’clock from the Jan Hus monument, okay, Vik?”

“Just get me tomorrow.” He muttered under his breath.

Ten minutes after Jayce and Vi left, Viktor was sitting beside you in the dressing room, as you held him close by his hip. Jinx focused her attention on the vocalist and the nervous wreck of a boy they picked up from the backstage.

Viktor leaned closer, sitting so close to you, almost on your lap. And you were holding his skinny, uninvitingly small and stiff thigh. And you somehow held it like he was a supermodel. And he hated how he melted under your touch.

“Have you heard of planets outside the solar system?” He stuttered, sitting huddled beside you, as you manspreaded across the seat, sipping a coctail. You have already changed into a loose undershirt.

“No.” Jinx said, unbraiding her blue hair.

“I did… but not much.” You said, smiling at him.

“Do you want me to talk about them?” Viktor looked you in the eyes, and he felt how his were widening like the ones of anything other than the brilliant astronomer he wanted you to see him as.

“No.” Jinx answered with a voice that screamed she didn’t care about the sciences. Then, she hid behind the curtain to change, throwing out her top from behind it.

The top landed on Viktor. “It is clear you didn’t.” He said, folding the piece of clothing. “A mind too closed to know that it should not throw clothes.”

You laughed, covering your face. Somehow, you melted him so much he now was bantering with the drummer.

“Please, tell me about them, professor Dvořák.” You looked into his eyes, holding his chin, making him explode inside. The way you called him professor Dvořák... Not doctor, professor. And how soft and attentive was your gaze. Your warm hand patted his hip. “I can’t wait till we’re alone in the hotel room.”

***

“Finally, just the two of us.” You said. Jinx and Vi, who recently got back with you to the hotel room, went to a bar to celebrate. You have ordered pizza for you and Viktor.

Now, he was standing in the centre of the hotel room. He wanted to sit, since his leg was tormenting him. But the air didn’t let him sit down before you do. He hissed in pain.

“Do you want to sit down?” You looked at his cane. Viktor nodded. He was certain you were some kind of mind reader.

A minute later, pizza arrived.

“Vi will kill us for this.” You said, taking a piece of pizza out of the box that lied on the bed. Like you weren’t his idol, but his friend, like Jayce. Whatever he was doing now.

You both were sitting on the white sheets in the white room, with Viktor’s cane lying beside him on the mattress. You bit of a piece of cheese-covered batch, steaming into the air. Viktor poked the pizza with his finger. The thought of eating, of biting, chewing and swallowing in front of you was hitting him with embarrassment that tangled his guts in a knot.

“Hey, Vik, why aren’t you eating?” You tilted your head in a caring manner, then smiled. “Tell me, at least there will be more pizza for me.”

“It’s… nothing.”

“Are you starving yourself like some fashion model? You’re already super skinny, I mean…”

“It’s a chronic illness. You know that the first exoplanets were speculated to exist in ninetieth century?” Viktor changed the subject, then took a triangle of pizza, covering his face with his hand. How comfortable he was becoming with you.

You looked at him, again with this weird concern in your eyes. Whatever you were thinking, Viktor knew one thing. You got attached. So quickly, he was pitying you for only being able to spend one night alongside him.

He took another bite, with his face covered, trying not to chew too loud, praying not to stain his face with tomato sauce. And you looked at him like at the prettiest of flowers.

“You know, the guy that speculated it saw anomalies in 70 Ophiuchi double star and thought some planet might exist there,” Viktor continued.

“Oh yeah? How did the research go later?”

“In the 1890s they abandoned it, they thought a third body in between the stars would make it unstable.”

“That was a hundred years ago, isn’t it crazy?”

“A lot happened a hundred years ago,” Viktor said. He noticed how your pupils widen at the face he made.

“You’re so pretty, Viktor. Your accent is too, and your brain…” You smiled at him weirdly, like you were expecting something. He knew what and it made him redder than the sauce on the pizza. You took the box into your hand and put it on the floor. “Fuckable, I would say.” You tilted up his chin so he couldn’t cover his face.

You cleaned his cheek of tomato sauce with your fingers. So unsexy.

“You want an… intercourse with me?” He felt how his cheeks become hotter than the sun itself and more red than the planet of Mars.

“You know, I’m too lazy today.”

“I can top.”

You lied on the mattress, then took out a pack of cigs and a lighter. You lit up your cigarette.

“So, take your dick out, pretty boy.” You said, inhaling the nicotine.

Viktor hugged the pillow. “Shouldn’t we kiss first?” He gripped the sheet closer to his chest.

Without saying anything, you pulled him onto your lap by his hips, like he weighted nothing. Your breath hit his face, smelling of nicotine, etanol and pizza. You took out the cigarette out of your mouth and put it in between his lips, gently holding the lower lip with your two fingers, getting them wet from his spit. Did it already count as a kiss?

His thighs were split by your knee, and his crotch was touching your thigh. You took his black Nirvana shirt off him, making him expose his hairy armpits, bones protruding from his ridiculously small and hairy torso, and his back brace. Then you kissed, no, you bit his neck and Viktor let out a moan of his lips, as his fingers grabbed the cigarette.

He didn’t have a scarf or a turtleneck and probably neither had anyone in the band.

“Don’t drop the cig, star boy, you will burn the bed.” You said with lust in your eyes, then started kissing his collarbone.

Viktor squeaked.

Then he felt as you unbuckled his jeans. You quickly flipped him on his back like he was as light as a ragdoll, then put up his legs, sliding the pants down. You threw them onto the floor.

But you were still clothed. You were still fully clothed, while he was wearing just his boxers and leg and back brace, feeling like a prostitute.

“So pretty.” Your eyes examined him from head to toe. “Better than a supermodel.”

Viktor took out the cigarette. Now it smoked in his fingers. You lowered yourself to his flat, hairy stomach and kissed it, biting his skin and hairs on his happy trail it like he was a snack. Viktor whimpered, covering his face with a pillow. Your lips travelled onto his hips, then on his legs and his inner thighs. As you nibbled the skin in between the brace on his weaker leg, he whined with a high pitch, trying to muffle it by pressing his face into the pillow. Your fingers gripped his hips like hawk claws. You put his leg over your shoulder.

He whimpered.

“What’s wrong, little star?”

“Other leg…” he mewled.

“I’ll kiss it if you won’t hide your pretty face anymore.”

Your mouth kissed the neglected, healthy leg of his gently. Then, your lips sucked onto it and he knew the next day all of his body will be red from hickeys. Your lips felt like heaven on his skin. Soft, wet, warm, hiding sharp teeth. As much as he wanted to hide himself in sheets, he stopped himself in the name of your mouth. And as you watched him, he repeated to himself, that you probably find his awkward face adorable.

Then the sensation stopped and he whimpered for more, feeling as his genius brain gets turned into something between a mush and a nebula. He gripped the bedsheet tighter.

“Undress me now.”

He opened his eyes wide, hearing these words from your mouth. Viktor’s hands were shaking. You laid before him as you put your hands under your head like shameless lazybones, and your legs spread between him. He took the white material of your undershirt between his fingers. The same thing with the other hand. He slid up your undershirt.

Your naked torso, the nude skin of his idol he imagined so many times, was even more beautiful in alive sight. Shaped better than he ever thought. You pulled his eyes onto his hypnotized self.

“Give me the cig, Viktor.”

His body shivered, as your voice said his name. It fondled every centimeter of his exposed skin. He gave you the cigarette, and you parted your mouth. As he put it between your teeth, his finger brushed your lips. He was almost naked, you were shirtless, but this, this little touch made him hard with no way to go back.

You inhaled some smoke. Viktor unbuckled your belt, then you stopped him to take out a condom and lube out of your pocket. He continued, unzipping your pants and sliding them down. He folded it into nice cubes, partially as a quiet mental revenge on Jinx for throwing her top at him.

Next, he touched your underwear. Underwear of his idol that would be sold for so much money he would never need sponsorship for his research. It smelled intoxicating. He slid it down, and you winked at him, exhaling cigarette smoke. Now, he was unsure how he will look at the posters of you in his bedroom, as he had seen your parts.

“You are…” He mumbled.

“Beautiful? Sexy? Stunning?” You prompted, then put the cigarette in his mouth and gripped his waist, just under his back brace. “Fuckable?”

He nodded.

“All of these? Then fuck me, show me how you do it. Just let me…”

You opened the condom with the teeth that have been just a minute ago biting his thighs. You touched his length and as you slithered the silicone material down on his sensitive skin, he whimpered, squeezing his eyes and hiding his face in his hands. And then, you put a massive amount of lube. He clenched his teeth, not to sound like a pathetic little cat.

You clasped his hips and shoved him inside you. You grunted and wiped sweat out of your forehead. Viktor cried. You, engulfing his length, were so tight he was shivering. And you took just the half of him.

He moved, and the friction made him tremble. You stroked his hip, like you were praising him. His whole body was covered in sweat, and he was breathing so hard his lungs hurt.

It was pathetic, how sensitive he was. He was barely inside you, but you having kissed his thighs had drove him so close.

Another thrust, he could take it better. He didn’t squeak like a cat, he only whimpered quietly, as three-quarters of his length were inside you. A drop of his sweat dripped onto your chest.

You slid him out by his hips, then slid inside again with a quiet moan. Viktor could barely stay up, even with a brace holding him. He was about to shatter.

“Have you done it before, little star?” You asked, exhaling smoke.

Viktor’s voice didn’t want to cooperate. Instead of yes, his mouth only said a squeal. He hid in a pillow.

“I can give your sweet mouth something to do, if you don’t feel like speaking.” You exposed his face from under a sheet. His length twitched and you hummed with a grin on your face, like you knew perfectly what you were doing.

Viktor knew his face was the shade of the Martian atmosphere and he regretted he ever learned English because of this.

He felt as your legs wrap around his waist, sliding him deeper. His brain was getting mushier with every millimeter. He trembled, gritting his teeth, knowing he was about to melt into a liquid state of matter and drip down inside you. His muscles were becoming soft like a pillow. He leaned on his hands between your head, leaning on his healthy leg. Every thrust of his was weaker, as his muscles were turning into plush.

“You’re so cute.” You chuckled, your hand brushing his damp hair. You were smirking, looking up at him with so much love in your glance. “Just a bit more.”

“I can’t… I’m cumming.”

“You can, sweetie. Just one more thrust.”

He obeyed, moving his hips into you. You pet his hair with a gentle smile, like he wasn’t milliseconds from turning into ashes. He felt as his eyes fill with tears. You hushed at him, stroking his back with your cold hand. He shivered from the touch.

His vision got blurry from tears. His whole body was shaking, as he shot an embarrassing amount of juices into you. His back arched, and his whole length got engulfed by your hole. He collapsed onto your chest, crying and sweating, his muscles weakening. He was certain he was seeing space, exoplanets perhaps.

“Ah, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re really good at these things.” You hissed and wiped the sweat of your forehead. “That’s my boy.”

You took him off your chest, then took off his condom and put it in the trash. That whole while, he spent lying on the bed, shaking and crying loads of tears into the pillow. He became so sensitive.

You put on your undershirt and underwear, then lied on the bed. He felt as you slip his boxers back onto him. You pulled him onto your chest with so much ease. The warmth of your body was slowly putting him to sleep. Tears gently dripped down his heated face. His hair was wet and probably smelly from sweat, just like the rest of his body. And you were brushing it with your loving hand. He purred.

You put a warm duvet on the both of you. Then you wiped off his tears with it. He closed his eyes. Your heart was beating inside your chest like a lullaby for him. He was listening to it now, alongside the sound of your breath and the blood flowing in your veins, but just some hours ago, he was not even truly conscious that you were corporeal.

His hand tied with yours. He was in a city three hundred and fifty kilometres from his Ostrava, in a hotel room he never stepped a foot in before, with a person he just until today thought of as superhuman. But now, your thumb was stroking his hand, making him feel so safe.

You left a warm kiss on his forehead just before he fell asleep.

…

“Seriously, Y/N?” The bassist’s voice woke him up.

You whined in your sleep and Viktor felt how you embrace him tighter, putting your leg over his. Vi moved her eyes from sleepy you to him.

“Seriously, Dvořák? You’re sleeping here, on my side of the bed? At least you're small enough not to take up much space.”

“Just to let you know, I don’t kick in my sleep or snore,” he mumbled with a voice hoarse from sleep.

“Unlike my sister,” she laughed and eyed at Jinx, sleeping with her mouth open on the extra bed. “Your friend has now a place to stay. I haven’t spent too much money on him, fortunately.”

***

Viktor woke up in his bedroom.

Again, he was dreaming of meeting his favourite rockstar and agreeing to what only the most stupid fans would agree to. And he was everything but stupid. But that dream was so… realistic. He’s going to tell Jayce about this dream as soon as they meet in the university.

He wondered if his friend dreamt of something too. Jayce’s dreams were always weird, like when they both visited a cemetery named China and mausoleum of Václav Havel by a rollercoaster, then having to evacuate because a war broke out in Czechoslovakia. Or when they were watching Disney characters beating each other up on a rooftop, while he was fixing an electrical outlet.

Wait a minute, this wasn’t his bedroom. This was a hotel room he fell asleep in his dream, with white sheets and white walls, and the morning sun peeking through beige curtains. And it was not a dream. On the bed at the other side of the room, Jinx was snoring, hugging her shark plushie from Jaws. On his right side, Vi was sleeping with messed up hair and her arm falling off the mattress . Floor was filled with empty and half-empty beer cans, a pizza box and pizza crumbs. The only familiar thing in the room was his cane.

He felt your arms wrapped around his waist and your face nuzzled into the back of his neck. You were so warm. And you both smelled of sweat and pizza you ate last night.

You hugged him tighter and groaned as you woke up. He felt you nuzzling your face into his back. Then, your hands freed him, and you stretched. Viktor rolled over to see if you were real. And you were. So real and human with a morning face and unbrushed hair.

You moved yourself up, to be at the height of his eyes. Then, you got up onto your arms, with him stuck between your hands. You smirked, being on top of him. Real.

“Hello, star boy. Have you slept well?,” you asked with your voice so soft.

Viktor wiped his eyes with his fist, whining. His brain was still waking up.

„I’m going to the shower. Wanna go with me?”

“Ehh… I would need a shower bench and I’m sure there is none of that in this hotel.” His morning voice was hoarse and grainy.

“You’re right. I’ll be right back.” You bent your arms like you were doing a push up, then kissed him on the forehead. He watched as you grab your clothes and lock yourself in the bathroom. As the sound of water started to drip down, he fell back asleep.

…

“Jinx! Wake up,” Vi’s voice woke up him instead.

“No.”

“Wake up.”

“No.”

“Oh my god, Jinx…” She sighed. “Help me, Dvořák....”

Viktor was forced to open his eyes.

“I have a name.”

“Oh my god. Help me… Viktor, right?”

He nodded, then stretched himself, hearing his joints cracking. His braces were digging into his skin. He regretted not taking them off for the night. When he was already standing on the ground, barely holding himself on his cane by sleepy muscles, he threw on his yesterday’s shirt. It was smelly and he had nothing else to wear, but it was worth the night he spent with you.

He leaned his hand on the wall and poked Jinx on the nose with his cane. She rolled to the other side. He poked her on the back. She grabbed the cane and he fell onto the bed.

Viktor tsked, rolling his eyes. “You know that you’re lucky that I am too weak to throw this bed upside down with you in it?”

“How did Y/N fucking you go?” Jinx asked as soon as she saw him, ignoring his threats.

“Is it really the first question you chose to ask me in the morning?”

“They topped, did they?”

“A mind so closed it jumps to conclusions…”

“Shut up, star boy.”

Half an hour later, Jinx finally woke up and Vi made breakfast for the whole band. When it was already a quarter after 10 o’clock, Viktor began to worry and get impatient. Jayce was never late, if anything, he was always too early. You went with him downstairs to look for a telephone. You found it at the front desk.

Jayce quickly answered. No wonder, after all, he had a mobile phone, that he remembered costed a fortune at Tuzex. He leaned on the desk.

“What is that music, Jayce?” he said into the headset, hearing Czech techno that disrupted his friend’s voice.

“Sorry, Vik! They’re being loud and you know…”

“I get it, can you pick me up from Y/N?” He asked, feeling as your hand wraps around his. He tried to ignore it. “If you haven’t gone back to Ostrava without me.”

“No problem, Vik! I’m here in an hour!”

“An hour? Where the fuck were you sleeping? Just don’t tell me you somehow got to Austria like last year.”

“I don’t know, but I'm rushing to you! Wait by the Jan Hus monument, okay?”

Viktor hung up the phone. You squeezed his hand and looked him in the eyes.

“One hour. We have an hour.” You sighed and pulled him to yourself, hugging him from behind with your hands on his waist. “I’ll miss you when it passes.”

He knew you won’t. Stars like you don’t miss random groupies they took for a one night stand to their hotel rooms. But the softness with which your hands wrapped around him said something different. He knew you shouldn’t.

Viktor closed his eyes and leaned on you, trying to remember and savor every detail of these few seconds. He knew he shouldn’t.

***

You spent the hour made to clean the hotel room, like the bassist asked you to. In this hour, Viktor explained the Austria incident with all its gory and criminal details, and the rest of the history of the research of exoplanets. Then you told him the entire story of how your band got the name Y/N & The Sisters Of Discordance, also giving him the knowledge of the alternative names the band almost got, most of them invented by Jinx.

He tried not to pay too much attention, knowing how much he would miss you otherwise. But he knew you were trying to imprint him in your mind like a tatoo on your skin.

Your finger traced along his skin like you were an artist tracing along the sketch to imprint the image of him in your mind. The exact shape of his nose, lips and cheekbones, the exact tint of gold in his eyes.

He felt so sorry for you. Seeing as you slowly put on your combat boots and your leather jacket, as if you wanted the both of you to stay in this hotel for one more while. Forever, perhaps.

You were focused on the beauty of him. He was focused on the beauty of the old town, so nostalgia will feel less painful.

He went to some corner shop to buy something to drink, choosing a bottle of Kofola. Two streets later he saw the Jan Hus monument and someone, probably Jayce leaning on its wall. Finally, he won’t have to feel your presence.

It wasn’t because he had enough of you. It was because he knew the light of the memory of you will forever contrast with the mundanity the rest of his life.

Viktor shivered.

“Are you cold, star boy?” You asked him, caressing his shoulder.

This petname that just last night felt like a hug, now gave him the awareness that for the rest of his life he will choke on it. And every next kiss he will experience will be hollow.

“A bit.”

“Do you want my jacket?” You started taking it off. Yeah, you will give it to him and he will be forced to remember your smell that he will never get to feel again.

“Please, no.”

“Please, you will be sick.”

He will be sick anyways.

“We’re almost there. I swear I can see Jayce from here.”

You kissed Viktor on the neck in a farewell. Jayce was reading something, probably some comic book, as he leaned on the monument’s wall. The Týn Church’s spiky towers poked the cold air and the gray sky.

Your tear fell onto his shoulder, as your lips left his. He walked towards Jayce, trying to focus on the unevenness of the street. He waved at him, then seeing his friend run towards him.

„Dang it, Vik!” He shouted with a dramatic gesture. “When you were spending your dream night with a rockstar I had to sleep in a hostel for truck drivers! I don’t know if I was still in Czechoslovakia but it definitely wasn’t in Prague anymore! Did you at least… have nothing against them? You know, there are a lot of fans who got impregnated by their idols, and stuff...”

“You were definitely not in Czechoslovakia because it stopped existing three months ago, Jayce.” Viktor sipped on his Kofola. “And I’m sure I won’t get pregnant with Y/N. Even if, I will force them to pay alimony.”

“Will you? What did you even do with Y/N?”

“I explained exoplanets to them and then they…” he sighed, not wanting to let the memories grow their roots. “I’m greatly surprised I can still walk.”

Viktor saw an old lady eavesdropping him and Jayce, looking, like she just saw Satan.

„And how was your night in that hostel for truck drivers?”

Jayce’s red Skoda was parked by the Legion Bridge.

Viktor sat on the passenger seat, as Jayce stepped on the pedal, and they headed back to Ostrava. Jayce put a cassette into the player. The car filled with sounds of Y/N & The Sisters Of Discordance’s latest album. He was now unable not to reminisce the night with the owner of the voice filling the car.

Then, the song Girl With Diamonds In Her Blood started to play. Jayce started bopping his head to the fast melody of his favorite song on the album.

Your voice, that he heard both in it’s softest and the most indecent shape, the voice that called him professor Dvořák, your star boy and your little star. Both laughing as you found his entire existence adorable and saying stuff that turned him red. This voice was now singing the worst lyrics on the album in his opinion. At least, it was not you who wrote it, but Vi.

Finally, even if it was your voice, Jayce singing and torturing Viktor’s auditory nerves was more bearable than the memories of you he will never get to relive.

Jayce, as he was driving the car, was singing:

They said:

Girl with Violet in her name,

Why don’t you have any friends?

I said:

I had one friend in Britain

I know she’s either here or there

I wanted to drink some tea

And she wanted it with me

So she brought me to her home

That was palace of some sort

And what did i expect?

„Listen here, Jayce.” His friend ignored him, but he continued. "You’re lucky that you are the driver and my cane is in the backseat.”

But Viktor was forced to listen to his vocal performances, until he sang the last line, hitting the steering wheel:

It’s a year since I left and I coughed up all my blood.

“If you ever sing that song in my presence again, you will actually have coughed all your blood.”

When he saw the sign displaying the word Ostrava, his mind landed back on earth, leaving behind the comet of the last night.

#viktor x reader #arcane x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor x gn!reader #sub viktor x reader #viktor x gn reader #viktor x m!reader #viktor x male reader #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #viktor x f!reader #viktor x female reader #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #🪐star boy oh mine ๋࣭ ⭑

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mscryinglighting · 3 months ago

Note

hello, would you do an alex turner x musician reader? she's just as famous with a solid fanbase, and they get a lot of media attention and even called a power couple of some sort. yet behind closed doors they're like any ordinary couple that love each other the most and doesn't care about what other people say about them? basically lots of fluff. i hope this makes sense! <3

Between The Chords

Alex Turner x musician!reader

Word count: 1.1K

a/n: Thank you sm for this request!

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The paparazzi's camera flashes momentarily blind you as you exit the airport, arm in arm with Alex, you try to speed walk through attempting to reach the car in one piece, all while the shutterbugs yell things like:

“Do you think you’ll be up for a BRIT this year?

And

“Y/n, any thoughts on the criticism of your new single?”

“These paps seem tame enough, non invasive especially for LA’s standards.” You thought, though their relentless camera flashes were starting to turn your mild headache into a full on migraine. You were fairly new to the scene, your debut album having blown up a little over a year ago, Alex on the other hand was slightly more well versed in the music industry, maybe that was what drew you to him -his experience- he’s become sort of a lighthouse keeping you afloat among the madness.

After what felt like an eternity you finally reach the car. Alex, ever the gentleman, holds the car door open for you, once you’re in he climbs in next to you, his fingers naturally finding yours, intertwining them as the car eases forward.

“God, I have such a headache,” you groan, burying your face against his neck.

“Oh, me poor baby,” Alex teases, smirking. “Need some Aspirin?”

“Shuddup.” You grin despite yourself. It’s like his superpower—making you smile through anything.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The hum of the engine and the faint rhythm of raindrops against the windshield make the drive almost peaceful. Alex’s thumb absentmindedly strokes the back of your hand, his warmth lulling you into a half-daze. Before you know it, the car slows to a stop outside your place.

“You alive, love?” Alex murmurs, squeezing your hand.

Barely. You just want to crawl into bed—but with him, of course.

Inside, the familiarity of home washes over you. Despite four months of touring, you both fall into your usual routine like no time has passed. Instead of unpacking like a responsible adult, you strip down and slip into a pair of Alex’s boxers and his hoodie—your real post-tour uniform—before heading downstairs.

Alex is already in the kitchen, and you watch him from the couch, your favorite spot for early morning and late-night admiration.

“Whatcha makin’?” you call, arms draped over the back of the couch. The open layout of your home—a design choice you hadn’t realized you’d love so much—means you get a perfect view of him moving around the kitchen, a bonus you fully take advantage of every time he makes breakfast shirtless.

Alex returns from the kitchen, a steaming mug in hand. “Doctor’s orders,” he jokes, handing it over with a lopsided grin. “Drink up before your headache gets worse.”

You take a sip, the warmth spreading through you. “When did you get your medical degree?”

“Oh, love, I’ve been a specialist in you for ages,” he quips, nudging you playfully.

“Stop it.” You blush bashfully, hiding your face in his chest.

He chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head before reaching behind the couch to pull out his guitar. “Mind if I play some tunes?”

“Now?” You raise a brow, amused. “You just survived an eight-hour flight, and you still have energy for this?”

“Yes, now while I still have my gorgeous muse beside me.” He starts to strum out a tune on his guitar, his fingers moving with practiced ease until he reaches the F Major, the one chord that always seems to trip him up.

You’re playing it wrong,” you say, watching him fumble with the chord.

“I am Alex Turner, y’know.” He says smugly while still trying to perfect the chord.

“Then act like it,” you tease, playfully nudging his shoulder. You set your mug down before briskly taking the guitar to show him how it's done.

“Look,” you say, shifting closer, “put your index here, and your middle on this string—like this.” You guide his fingers into place, your hands lingering over his.

He looks up at you, his eyes glinting under the warm glow of the lamp. “What would I do without my genius of a girlfriend?”

Alex strums the chord again, this time getting it right transitioning into a melody. It’s slow, almost hypnotic, and then he starts singing—low and soft, just for you.

You rest your head against his shoulder, letting his voice wrap around you like a warm blanket.

“You falling asleep on me already?” Alex murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair.

“M’not,” you mumble, but your body betrays you, melting further into him.

He chuckles. “That’s what they all say before they start drooling on me hoodie.”

You swat at him weakly. “I do not drool.”

“Right. Just like I don’t mess up F Major.”

You groan, hiding your face against his chest. “I regret helping you.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice is warm, teasing. “And you love me.”

You huff, but your sleepy smile gives you away. “Yeah, yeah.”

Fame could be loud. But moments like this? This was what really mattered.

Speaking of fame, the airport paparazzi pictures have already been posted to social media, both your fandoms were going absolutely berserk over the images. Since Alex was a grandpa about social media you had to read out all the comments to him. Well maybe only the nice ones.

“Wanna hear what the internet has to say about us?”

He hums, strumming idly on his guitar. “Oh, go on then. What’s the verdict?”

You clear your throat and read dramatically, “‘Rock’s Most Stylish Couple Spotted in L.A.: Y/N Stuns in Casual Chic While Turner Keeps It Classic.'"You glance down at yourself—his hoodie and boxers, your hair still slightly messy from the flight. “Casual chic, huh?”

Alex looks over, eyes flicking lazily across your outfit. “Yeah, proper high fashion, that.”

You snort, scrolling down. “Oh, this one’s good—‘Alex Turner and Y/N Y/L/N prove once again they’re the definition of couple goals.’”

Alex smirks but doesn’t look up from his guitar. “Ah, well, hate to break it to ‘em, but we’re actually a disaster behind closed doors.”

You roll your eyes, scrolling further until a tweet makes you burst into laughter. ‘Alex and Y/N are real-life couple goals. If they ever break up, love isn’t real.’

You turn to Alex, raising a brow. “No pressure or anything.”

Alex finally stops strumming and squints at your phone. “They’re putting that much faith in us?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you tease. “Apparently, we’re single-handedly holding the concept of love together.”

Alex sets his guitar aside and tugs you closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “Well then, guess we’ve got no choice, love.”

You grin, leaning into him. “Guess not.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

a/n: Hope I did this amazing request justice! I had so much fun writing this, and I truly appreciate all the love and support. Also, part 2 of ‘The AM Effect’ is in the works—I can’t wait to share it with you all soon!

#alex turner #arctic monkeys #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #x reader #reader x character #x yn #y/n #musician #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x musician!reader #musician reader #AM #am era #alex turner fanfic #request

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voidcat · 4 months ago

Text

– call it fate, call it karma

characters: mithrun of the house of kerensil, elf!sorcerer!reader

notes: hello! another fic of mine that rqures a note bc once again i got too impatient. i fear it may not make much sense without the rest. this is originally the first of a 3-part work. because this is a mithrun fic, it has possible spoilers for dunmeshi, especially mithrun, so if you're an anime only, this is your warning. this takes place before the dungeon chapter of mithrun. reader is an elf. there is subtle looking down on southern lands/deeming them as inferior from mithrun's perspective- in dnd, magic users vary and how theyve acquired thier way of casting spells:) a sorcerer is p much "born to it" / in their blood. its not smt theyve studied like a wizard. thank you for reading!

On a breezy day in the southern side, Mithrun, formerly of the house Kerensil, now of canaries, finds himself lost in the cobblestoned streets.

The sun shines bright above his head, creating a makeshift halo on top of his head; the weather has just begun to warm up, he thinks to himself, maybe in small moments such as this, the sun is on his side.

Unlike the lands he is familiar with, the sun is harsher here, the people mixed, one big pot of cultures and species, a stew of life and history; it's what the southern lands are often preferred for, the easier access to various branches of fields and of people. right under one's fingertips, at every five steps one takes.

Though the canaries have graced the place with their presence, it is not a matter to be fretting about. the dungeon roaming side of things almost fall unimportant this time, hence he growing worry he feels within his body as he tries and tries each street entrance he sees, but to no avail, unable to find his way to the palace grounds– taking a look at the horizon, it might be possible he has found a way to stray further away from it even.

The streets well donned with signs as they may be, they are but a book to a blind man when you haven’t got the slightest idea of the city. And so Mithrun finds himself looking around cluelessly, trying not to allow the situation to take its toll on him; keep your head up, chin high, here returns the smile bright enough to light up countless possible suitors’ lives, he takes a step, turns 180 degrees and begins to walk again, back into the crowd that is gathering with each passing minute.

Everyone seems to be in their small little world, preoccupied with those accompanying them. The sun burns bright, few gulls fly by as they greet the cityfolk with their shrieks. Only a few people look up to greet the birds, the kids waving their hands as they jump in the air. He sees a baby trying to grab one of them, a hard task to accomplish from where they lay. A kobold waving its tail eagerly, as if the scene never gets old for him.

The breeze carries the scent of seafoam and Mithrun begins to notice a slight shift in the crowd. With each step, the nonsense chatter of the people begin to change, slowly taken over by what he can guess to be vendors and the like. The strolling rhythm of the people soon replaced by hurried steps and a faster pace of liveliness in the streets. The cobblestones beneath his feet a tad shinier and worn out, he assumes this must be some point of transaction.

Standing where he is, he tries spotting the rough estimation toward the palace, deciding a route for himself from then on.

The swarm of people suddenly increases, the volume with them as well, and in about five minutes, it all dies down.

It is the instant loss of sound that first draws his attention and Mithrun finds himself unable to hide the surprise on his face. Lips slightly parted, he can taste the air growing lighter with the little amount of people in its vicinity. Forgetting his main task at hand, he looks around, left and right, a tad surprised, a tad observing the place, spotting more and more differences it holds compared to the other streets he has passed thus far.

Mostly vendors selling drinks or tools one might require at the last minute, shops that reek of ink and freshly published books, buy one get the second frog for half the price– do not miss this deal of a– “hello… anyone the–” a foreign voice cuts his thoughts in the middle.

What was it he was reading again? Some nonsense bargain to quickly sell leftover produ–? His thoughts come to a halt when his mind finally registers the foreign voice to be still talking, and presumably its owner waving a hand into his face.

“Ah, there you are! Sir, are you alright?” the voice gets clearer with each syllable, as does his view.

Before him, stands an elf, no older than him for sure but with a doubt in the back of his mind. If there is one thing he has noticed, it is the southern continent elfs, at least the ones of this city all look remarkably young, younger than their northern siblings for sure; big curious eyes, bright skins glistening under the sun. probably just a side effect of the climate, and perhaps the result of a more leisure life. Starvation is never a thought in the back of one’s mind, causing stress with the passing days when there is no risk of all your crops freezing overnight.

You could toss the seed of a fruit you ate as you walk, and find it growing into a tree in few years time, he has overheard people say about the lands here before. Fertile lands, rich in culture and nutrients.

“Aah,” your wondering sound draws his attention back on you, “are you lost? Do you need help?”

His lucky hours indeed, he thinks.

With a chuckle, he closes his eyes, bringing a hand to the back of his hand, “ah, is it that obvious?” he asks in a manner others often find shy and friendly.

With a hum, you seem to weigh your answers. “Yes and no.” you say, “if that’s what you’re worried about!” you add as an afterthought.

Then it must be the clothes that gave him away. He finds it odd that someone this far away from the palace recognizes the canaries’ uniforms but apparently possible.

As if reading his mind, you speak “I’m used to people asking for directions. I usually run into people who lost their way here.” with a smile as if sharing some sort of joke, or a secret with him. Maybe the occurrence has happened so frequently you just find it amusing at this point, accepting your fate as it is.

“So, where were you going?” you inquire. “The palace.” he answers curtly.

At his response, your eyes seem to gleam, who knows what it is you have found amusing this time– he begins to wonder if it’d be safer to get directions from a nearby vendor.

“I’m headed around that way too! Come on, just follow me.” you take off before the last word leaves your mouth. Quick, long steps, you create a gap between the two of you before he can catch onto the development of events.

With quick strides, he catches up to you easily, calculating if he keeps the same pace, he will be ahead of you, and lost again, soon, so he slows down, letting his eyes roam.

You walk in rhythm, as if using a song to keep yourself and your steps even. Eyes locked up ahead, only drifting when you pass by a reflecting surface, you seem focused, probably walked the same path countless times before, and become a guide many times as well.

After passing several buildings, the architecture of the city seems ordinary now, the general theme and style making itself apparent with its bronze and corals, warm and earthly tones. He muses whether to hold a conversation be wiser or not.

“So…” he begins as to signal the beginning of a conversation. “Are you a voluntary guide or mandatory?”

You chuckle at his question and steal a glance his way: “hard to believe but by pure coincidence and luck every single time.”

“How come?” how often would it have to happen for you to say it like this? “More than I would like to count. And not even mentioning the ones i try to avoid.”

“Such as?..” He lets the question hang. “Ah, just those who are clearly locals but refuse to read the signs right behind them.” you say.

Suddenly you bring your hands in front of you like those extinct birds, eyes rolled, mimics overly exaggerated “‘How can i get to X street?’. You pitch your voice in a sudden “We ARE in X street! How could you have gotten here without knowing!” you raise your tone, sounding exhausted.

As quick as you were to make gestures, you drop your arms in front of you as if they are not extensions but just sacks attached to you.

He finds himself giggling at the display. So dramatic.

At his reaction, you gather yourself again and remain your initial self. “You don’t believe me, do you…” you fake a pout. “Well, no matter! I don’t lose anything at the end of the da– cat!” before you finish your word, he watches you rush to your new subject of attention a little ahead of you too.

At the horizon, he sees the palace getting bigger and bigger. As quick as you were to dash, you return just as swiftly.

The walk continues steadily. Was it not for the sun slowly making rounds, its rays shifting the color of the walls, Mithrun wouldn’t have noticed time passing by. You don’t ask much about him, most likely out of respect for a stranger, but still talking nonetheless, pointing at things here and there, giving random information about whatever it is you are showing– be it a concrete part of the city or just a random flower by a windowsill.

The general theme of the streets begin to shift again, foretold by the overtaking scent of something sweet, salty and yeast-y. Up ahead, he can hear the growing chatter of the people once more.

“From then on, you should just walk straight ahead until you are at a crossroads. Then take a right and keep walking straight until you spot the gates.” you to him and say. So you part ways here, he thinks, recalling what you’ve said earlier when you’ve met.

“I’ve gotta do a quick run somewhere, I walk fast so chances are I will be by your side in no time but if i don’t, and you get lost, you can ask around anyone here now.” you add on as to assure him. What a sense of duty for someone you’ve just met… if this is how you are with everyone you give directions to, then you should be really looking out for yourself.

Yet it is a refreshing reminder, Mithrun finds, that there are still those with innocence and good will, no hidden agendas or the like.

Repeating what you’ve just told him in his head, Mithrun gives you a nod and a formal thanks. Watching as your steps fasten ahead and to the left of the street. So you do walk faster, what a city in hurry with its people, no wonder the cobblestones all look worn out and polished.

As he walks by people, he overhears the time, ease taking over him to know he is not late to anything yet.

The source of the pleasant scent shows itself in the guise of a street lined with bakeries and small market places brimming with freshly picked fruit.

The city gains a different wave of life in this particular street– people more at ease, a perfect representation of the leisurely image they have for themselves. Not a care, not a single worry in the world, a safe haven to live and spend the end of your days.

Among the chatter, his ears pick up on familiar footsteps and he finds himself side by side with you once more. Such a hurry for a lazy city…

Too enamored with the box you now have in your hands, you don’t seem to notice him– or even if you do, you make a good job of hiding it.

It doesn’t hurt to have a companion for the remainder of the path as well, and so he calls out to you “it seems fate allowed us to meet again.” he says with a smile, receiving one in return after you wipe off the short lived expression of surprise on your face.

“Someone was afraid of getting lost again, I see.” you claim playfully.

Putting away the box to a bag, you let it dangle slightly with your steps and refocus your attention back on the road and on Mithrun.

Just as you said, at crossroads the two of you make a right, the sign there only showing the palace ahead.

Well maintained soil and flowers take over the road, adding a faint fragrance to the air.

Each step closer to the gates and with nothing else in the perimeter for you to have gone, Mithrun begins to wonder whether you are prolonging your route for the sake of him or not.

Only for you both to walk past the gates of the palace; one guard checking his identity and another yours; only for you to carry on walking with him, your end destination revealing itself to be the same as his since the beginning.

At the steps he can hear his teammates' voices in the distance and in the blink of an eye one of the fairies approaches him. Casting a glance at you, and seeing you’re away from the hearing range, attention already elsewhere, he is informed their meeting isn’t until another hour and he can wait wherever he wishes, as long as he arrives prior to 10 minutes.

Bidding the fairy goodbye, he walks up to where you stand, hearing a disappointed sound coming from you at the sight of a butterfly taking off as he arrives.

Noticing his presence when his shadow casts over you, you turn to look up and meet his gaze. “You’re still here?” you sound surprised.

He settles for a shrug, “it seems I have another hour to kill.”

You seem to be contemplating something, eyes going between the main entrance and him, the entrance and the benches by the gardens– “oh i know!” you sound excited. “How about I give you a reading!” you say more than ask, leaving him no choice but to comply. You seem too excited to be turning down any ways, and so Mithrun finds himself following after you once more.

The palace gardens are wide, starting from the gates and, if the palace plans are like any other, spreading all the across the palace itself, a section of a greenhouse somewhere, a labyrinth of bushes and trees in the back; so much green and so much land, it is impressive how well maintained it is even from the looks of what Mithrun can assume to be the epilogue of the real thing. That’s the thing with southern cultures, as leisure and fertile as they come, theirs is a lifestyle devoted to luxury as well, in all the slight, hidden ways. Hectares and hectares of land worth more than measly chandeliers made of gold. They need constant attending to, care, resources and whatnot.

You walk ahead and settle for a bench made of stone, no different than the ones you have passed along the way, save for the shade falling over its space. Seeing you sit at one end, Mithrun copies your act, the bench itself is long enough for more than three people in regular wear to fit, and wide enough that he cannot sit all the way back. Seeing you positioning yourself sideways, he pauses and lets his eyes wander over the garden section you are at.

Not too far away from the gates but not too out in the open, a decent distance away from every direction one may need to, it mustn’t be the first time you had to kill time here. He wonders whatever is happening that postponed their meeting is the same thing that has you waiting outside all by yourself.

The sound of something dropped onto the bench draws him out of his thoughts followed by the sounds of rummaging through what one assumes to be a bag. Turning to sit sideways like you did, he looks down to spot a box on the middle of the surface. Recognizing it as the box that came into your possession after you first parted ways, his eyes look up, watching as you have one in a bag, your cast upwards, tongue almost sticking out, painting one of those comical poses.

“Found it!” you exclaim more to yourself in victory and redirect your attention to him, only to find him looking back, seeming surprised to realize he was watching you the whole time. Seeing the clueless expression on your face, as if you have no idea what to do or how to live with your shame now, he tilts his head to the side and giggles at your demeanor. Only a few deep breaths later and with his nonchalant reaction do you return to normal, blink a few times then remember what it was you were looking for this whole time.

“Here! Let me do a reading for you.” you say rather excitedly, and yet again, excitement seems to be a part of your nature from his observations so far. “A… reading?” Mithrun sounds confused, he titled the other way this time.

“Yes!” you say as you begin to shuffle the cards. “It’s a relationship reading technically, but a harmless way to pass time that my friends and i often do.” you explain.

Looking down at the cards in your hands, he first notes how worn out they are, like everything else in this city. Then seeing the reds and blacks, as well as the symbols, he finds it odd it’s a simple deck of playing cards. Fortune tellings and readings done with cards often use special decks like tarot after all. The cards don't glide off of each other like a professional deck should, a side effect to their age, but it doesn’t seem to bother you once a bit, your fingers make it work smoothly. Either you must have done more readings than you let on– which he doesn't find plausible, as you sounded a little inexperienced and unsure, or that the cards were passed down to you from someone else. Or you have been introduced to gambling at extremely young ages, which should be more than alarming in his eyes.

What too much free time brings to lives, it seems. In the northern cities, you don’t have the time nor the luxury to learn to gamble unless you have a life that doesn’t worry about survival. Partially true for his case, he muses, you are either too busy surviving or busy ruling, in charge of something bigger to not have any time left for such petty things.

Suddenly your hands come to a halt and your gaze finds his. “Alright, so, any other na–” you stop mid sentence. “My apologies, I never got your name.” you say sheepishly, waiting.

“Mithrun,” he says, “of the house of Kerensil.” he watches for any sign of recognition in your eyes but to no avail. At most, you seem to ponder in your head ‘where was this name familiar from’, but you don’t seem to know of them, and he cannot blame you, there are many noble families and people often aren't acquainted with them unless they are from the same vicinity.

Giving him a nod, you test his name on your lips, dragging the syllables, your gaze cast upwards again, then turn back to look at him in a sudden you seem content, you introduce yourself as well.

You place the deck between the two of you almost in a slam and look at him again. Mithrun’s eyes land on the deck, then to your face and back at the deck again, waiting for your instructions.

“You can cut the deck.” you say and watch as he does carefully, a perfect half. Placing the bottom half on top of the top, you hold and right as you are about to pull a card, you notice the box that’s been sitting there this whole time.

With the back of your hand, you push the box towards him, earning another confused look from Mithrun. Placing the deck, you undo the ribbon at top and open, revealing its content with a sudden burst of the scent of that busy street. “I had purchased extra to share with and to snack later on.” you say, not sparing the pastries a glance. “You can have some.” you urge him to try one.

Fingers carefully dipped into the box, Mithrun grabs one of the long pastries and brings it out, ‘an eclair, huh’ he recognizes the small sweet to be. Though unlike the classical ones he has come across, this one contains red cubes of something within the cream, cut up strawberries, he assumes; and biting into the pastry, his assumptions are proved correct as he lets the taste linger on his senses.

Seeing him eat and display a face of pleasure, you seem content as well and begin to count each letter of his name, placing seven cards separately, their backs facing the sun. just as he wonders if this was it, you repeat the action, creating seven piles of cards until the deck ends. When you have no more cards to deal, you grab one of the stacked groups and deal them again, and again and again, until you have no more cards to deal, until there are only two piles left. Just as you did when he cut the deck, you place one on top of the other and put all the cards, backs facing the sun.

Just as he thinks, ‘so, this was it?’ you pull the cards from the deck and place them side by side, repeating the process until there are no cards left in your hands. Unlike your dealing and shuffling, you do this part a little slower, he examines. He can see you pull the cards at the top and bottom. Face concentrated, you gather the pile of cards back into a deck and start over. “Anyone in your life, or a certain someone in your mind?” you ask, eyes finding his.

His mind goes to his beloved at your question, but he chooses to be silent. “My cards are rather old, and I don't like to make mistakes.” you say, not allowing for silence to gather. “So when I pull the two cards, I pull each one separately. My friend pulls both with only two fingers rather smoothly actually, hers is much more pleasant to watch.” so you did notice him observing after all. Pulling and placing another couple of cards, you suddenly stop and place them to the other side, away from the pile. He shouldn’t be guilty of observing though, when you are doing all the work and the other party has no choice but to wait, one either talks or watches, no inbetween.

He watches as your hand quickly places another double to the side, a few spaces later and another one again. So this is how it is, he thinks, as you gather the deck one last time and repeat the process a third time.

When finished, you spread the remaining cards in a line and quickly count the amount or pairs, tell him to pick the same count of cards. Staring at the cards laid down before him, Mithrun picks each card carefully, reaching them out to you face down, as you take each and place it on top of an existing pair. When he picks the last one, you speak up: “now pick three more.”

He recalls what he heard from the others before regarding cards and readings, dont think too much, pick quickly. His hand goes on its own and he picks the first card; “you” the card taken from his hand and placed down, your voice fills the air. His hand darts to another card, and you take it from him in no time; “the other party.”. There is something in the way you started speaking that gives him an odd feeling. Without looking, he picks his final card and holds it out for you to take, “your future.” you simply say.

Flipping the cards on top of the doubles, you stay silent for a while, looking at each card and muttering something to yourself.

Then with a sudden clap of your hands, you look up. “alright, so!” you begin, waiting just to make sure you have his attention on you, “this is mostly a silly thing we use to pass the time and there is no guarantee the cards say the absolute truth. With some of us, the readings made no sense until the reader and the one being read got to know each other and became friends.” you ramble off, “although, with some people I later grew to be friends with, I got their latest relationship right in the cards so… I suppose it’s a fifty-fifty situation, alright?” your rambling comes to a stop and you offer him a smile. Out of pity or some sort of consolation, he doesn't know. He didn’t watch carefully enough to learn how you opened the cards, so the possibility of giving him all the info you have on this is out the window too.

Flipping the remaining cards, you leave the last three and begin to tap on each couple plus singular piles of cards.

“Hmm… jealousy… trouble… the relationship card is there too but ah… could it be really yours?” you speak more to yourself than to him and Mithrun finds himself leaning in.

He doesn’t believe in such things like fortune telling, everyone decides their own fate, craft their lives with decisions they make. A random made up reading a stranger made for him out of nowhere won’t have an affect on him. But then again, his mind stops for a second, straightening up, he waits, still– he senses no mana in the air so even if you manage to get some things right regarding his life, it will be a lucky guess and no ruse, he thinks.

For such leisure lives, one would expect people to use magic in their daily lives too, yet from all the minutes he has spent by your side so far, he hasn’t felt a drop of mana— so much so, the lack of it would be found eerie by other elves.

“It is a little vague but that’s what the last three are for.” you begin speaking. “So it goes like this: there is jealousy and yearning, an offer that will come with time and a relationship that has jealousy on it. There is trouble as well, with time– assuming the relationship is yours, a third person might cause trouble; but if it is not, then… well,” you pause, a sad look on your face, “I am sorry, I hope whatever happens works in your favor.” you say. As he begins connecting what you have said with his life, doing his best to keep his brother’s image away from his mind, you flip the three cards in order.

“Oh…” you sound upset, and a little surprised. So it is the latter, he gathers.

“I was hoping maybe the ‘offer’ card would come second here but i suppose not.” you say and show him the cards.

“You, jealousy; the other party, agape; and the future…” your brows furrow, “time.”

Silence takes over the two of you for a while. Just the sound of leaves rustling with the breeze, some cicadas, and the birds in the distance communicating.

“Welp! As I said, sometimes when it’s a stranger, the reading itself makes no sense.” you speak up suddenly, bringing a hand to your hair, seeming apologetic.

Gathering the cards together in one go, you collect them into a deck again and put away, avoiding Mithrun the whole time. Placed in their case and out of sight the traitorous cards are, your hand makes way for one of the pastries, carefully placing it between your fingers so as to not get any of the chocolate coating touching your skin. You bite into the small treat intently, careful not to have the cream filling overflowing.

“I hear footsteps, they must be finished inside.” you say as you take your last bite and nudge the box to him to take another one. Seeing as your offer will not end until he complies, he grabs another eclair and slowly munches on the pastry as you close the box and gather your belongings, preparing to take off.

“Do you remember the way back?” you ask, standing above him. When he replies with a nod, you let out a sigh. “Alright then, I will be taking my leave. It was my pleasure meeting you and making your acquaintance for the day!” and with it, you turn on your heels and walk just as you came, still fast and rhythmic; as if walking at a slower speed is physically impossible for you. With the eclair still in his hand, Mithrun sits a little longer, letting the breeze carry away all the thoughts your cards have brought him. Looking at you go, you never once turn back, odd, he thinks, you almost seemed the type to turn one last time and wave a hand.

#dungeon meshi #mithrun #mithrun of the house of kerensil #mithrun x reader #mithrun x you #dungeon meshi x reader #dungeon meshi x you #dunmeshi x reader #dunmeshi x you

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ireadwithmyears · 4 months ago

Text

Looking Out for You: Part 3

Pairing: Commander Fox/fem reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Visually impaired reader masterlist

Tagging: @tazmbc1

Word count: 4.7 K

Tags/warnings: visually impaired reader, Angst, confrontation, disability based discrimination/ableism, mild hurt/comfort, misunderstandings, Fox (and reader for that matter actually) are both bad at feelings

Summary: When things start showing signs of getting confrontational when you’re just trying to get a ride home from work, Fox, as is seeming to become routine, saves the day. Now if only you could save yourself from falling even harder for the man who you’re certain, without even having to ask, does not feel the same way about you, things would be just perfect.

Authors note: Surprised I got this up before the new year? Yeah, me too. Planning to have the final installment of this up sometime in January, though with me, you really never know what’s going to happen until it does 🤣 I’m not good at scheduling when it comes to writing. Things are only going to happen when they’re ready to. But without further ado, I hope you enjoy this one, and I’m wishing everyone a happy new year🎊

The third time it happens, Fox is imbued with a vengeful, murderous rage.

Is that an exaggeration? Only slightly. But honestly, it doesn’t take much to set him off these days, and this, he thinks—striding through the twists and turns of the Senate Building’s hallways with tightly clenched fists and a contemptuous glare on his face that he hadn’t even bothered to conceal with his helmet before storming out of his office—has certainly done it, no question

It had all started a couple of weeks ago, a few mornings after you and Fox had gone on your breakfast date. No—he adamantly refuses to call it a date. But regardless, after that, several events had occurred in quick and notable succession.

The first, the morning after you had returned to the Senate Building after you had been given a day off in compensation for your working overtime the night prior, you arrived to find a new and fully operational orientation and mobility droid, photoreceptors blinking and waiting for you outside.

Fox, after doing some research, found that they were a very useful and highly sought-after navigational tool for the blind in the workplace, assisting with guidance, orientation through different spaces, and generally aiding by describing visual markers, signage, inaccessibly formatted documents and other things you might encounter.

He had come to find, sifting through Senate-issued requisition forms, that you had been approved to obtain one, fully covered, weeks ago. He made some calls, pulled some strings, and with some degree of satisfaction boosted you to the top of the waitlist and made sure that the droid had been fully set up and functional by the time you returned to work.

Two days later, the first box of baked goods mysteriously appeared outside his office door.

Fox, ever the skeptic, had been wary and had even gone so far as to take the first box of deliciously powdered donuts to one of his medics for screening just to make sure it wasn’t some Separatist trick filled with poison.

That was proven to not be the case, and his brothers, laughing at him for being so paranoid, had swiped the remaining donuts, converging around the box like a swarming hive of bees eager to taste the first drops of a flower's nectar, eating whatever they could reach.

Fox had glared at them and pretended to be annoyed at his loss, but then the food kept coming.

Baked goods were sent down to HQ or his office anonymously every couple of days, and if he had been suspicious before—considering he had only just spoken to you about how little exposure clones actually had to food—exiting his office to find your visual interpreting assistant droid, Via, resolutely marching down the hallway with a tin of Coruscant Guard-red frosted cupcakes held in her metallic arms with the logo of the small coffee shop he had taken you to just over a week ago made the pieces come together with a satisfying click in his mind.

“Via,” he had called out, voice colored with fresh surprise and bafflement. “What are you doing?”

“I am delivering a parcel on behalf of my mistress,” she had stated with that tone Fox privately thought droids always used when they believed a human was asking a stupid and redundant question. “As you are the benefactor, I shall relieve myself of it and hand it directly to you.”

He had taken it, utterly lost for words and filled with a mix of confusion and strange, totally foreign delight knowing that you had been the one delivering these gifts.

It was thoughtful, he had mused. Kind. And he really should insist that you put an end to it, because it was unnecessary. But, stomach growling as he looked down at the clear-plastic topped box and turned back to his office to set it down, he found that he wasn’t in too much of a hurry to do so.

Come on, Via, hurry up.

The singular thought chases around in circles in your head, anxiety increasing with every tap of your foot against the pavement-covered ground.

As a rule, and on the recommendation of a certain clone commander, you weren’t in the habit of waiting outside the Senate Building on your own anymore, which is why the droid had shown up at precisely the right time. Rumors were abound that the Senate abductions were still occurring, and even though the Guard was closing in on a specific lead, the suspect was still at large. The situation was made worse with the sun beginning to set earlier, leaving you in almost complete darkness by the time you started making your way home most nights.

But then, things like this would happen, and it made you all the more grateful for the droid’s unexpected but welcome company at the end of the day.

You had explained on her first night waiting with you to catch your ride home from work that sometimes situations like this would arise.

“And how am I to assist if things were to, as you say, ‘get ugly’?” she had asked, photoreceptors blinking as she looked at you.

“Nothing you can do, I think,” you had shrugged, and when that response had only elicited the mechanical equivalent of a dissatisfied sound from the droid, you had conceded. “I suppose you could get the nearest member of the Coruscant Guard to intercede,” you said, thoughtfully biting your lip. “An uncooperative driver might be more inclined to listen if it’s coming from one of them, though I would prefer to try and handle it on my own first. After a moment’s pause and almost as an afterthought, you had added, “Preferably, get Commander Fox.”

You couldn’t explain why, other than you just trusted him above all others to make sure that if you were ever in a tight spot like this, you got out of it without trouble.

“Excellent,” Via had chirped, straightening with a now satisfied air. “Then that is what I shall do. Though let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Well, a few days later, it did. You found yourself frantically depending on the droid that had, out of nowhere, arrived outside Senator Organa’s office, clearly denoted as being meant specifically for you.

She had her uses, you had to admit. Outside of the usual—getting you to where you needed to go inside the often tricky-to-navigate Senate Building—she could also run errands for you, and that, you had found, was very useful—even if it was for a more personal nature than had originally been intended.

Via had, with the help of your descriptions and admittedly blurred memory from your sleepless night, helped you locate the coffee shop Fox had taken you to, and if outside of work hours, you had required her assistance to help read the menu and place large orders of baked goods to be shipped down to his office or Coruscant Guard HQ…well, no one had said anything against it, and it made you happy knowing that Fox and hopefully some of his brothers would be able to eat food that they would also be able to enjoy, an apparent luxury that they had never been afforded, to your disgust, by their seemingly cutthroat creators.

You had also taken advantage of her translating abilities, which became especially helpful during Senate meetings and also when you had asked her what the kriff “cyar’ika” meant. Your ears turned pink every time you thought about it, and your lips couldn’t resist curling upward into a small, endeared smile whenever the commander came to mind after that.

At this moment though, you certainly weren’t endeared.

“Who are you to tell me my rights as a driver?”

The furious shout rings through the quiet parking lot and you swallow, heart picking up in speed as you reach down to run your fingers through Mandalore’s soft fur at the top of her head. She nuzzles into your hand, well practiced in your number-one technique to self-soothe and ground yourself by now. You close your eyes, focusing on the rhythm of your pets, the way her fur feels beneath your fingertips, and find that for once, it’s not helping.

Especially not when the driver—apparently sparked into a rage at your audacity in telling him that it was against planetary law to deny service to beings purely because they were accompanied by a service animal—opens the drive’rs seat door, the click of his seat belt unbuckling unmistakable and ringing in your ears as he gets out of his speeder.

Oh, boy, you think, tentatively taking a step back as he steps into your field of vision on the sidewalk. This has never happened to you before.

“Look,” you manage to get out through a panicked swallow, the rhythm of your hand smoothing against Mandalore’s head too fast, too uneven. “I am simply stating that there are laws in place. If I were to take this to court—”

“You’d what, take away my license?” He’s menacing as he takes another step forward, and you physically recoil at the smell of stale caf that you catch on his breath as he invades your space. “I bet you think you’re untouchable because you kiss Organa’s ass, don’t you, sweetheart?”

He reaches out, you think maybe to grab the badge that denotes your name and position within the Senate, but you’re stepping, no, stumbling backward, Mandalore jumping to her feet and shoving her way in front of you as her ears perk upward in consternation, intuitively sensing your growing unease.

She’s trained to be well-behaved, to remain calm and unaffected in even the most chaotic situations, yet right now she senses a clear threat, and you don’t scold her for acting on it. Hell, your hands are shaking so hard that you can barely keep a grip on her leash, let alone reach for her harness.

And then the double doors of the Senate Building come swishing open behind you and a voice—steady, sure, and with the cutting edge of a deadly knife—fills you with such a sharp, distinct sense of relief that it nearly brings you to your knees.

“Do we have a problem here?”

It’s strange and distinctly unsettling for Fox to catch a glimpse of Mandalore giving voice to his internal rage with her expression alone. But he realizes as he steps out from the shadows that he’s only ever seen her happy and calm, a far cry from the tense, highly alert, and looking like she’s about to pounce canine that stands in front of you right now.

He understands though. He understands her all too well. If Via’s report on the rapidly escalating situation she had briefed him on as they speed walked hadn’t been enough, than this—hearing the tail end of the confrontation and seeing that the driver had looked to be about to lunge for you—well, sufficed to say his blood is boiling, and his heart is beating loudly in his ears.

Fox takes a breath, flexes his fingers, and wills himself to calm down before he speaks again. When he calls your name, it’s still gruff, but softer, wanting only gentle words to be directed your way. He’s relieved to see that despite your already tense shoulders and your shaking hand clutching at Mandalore’s leash, you don’t flinch when he addresses you—a small but resounding victory in his mind.

“Stay right there,” Fox murmurs, his voice steady, coaxing, and soft, making it all the more obvious when he directs it away from you. When he speaks to the man that still looms menacingly over you, his words are anything but soft.

“You,” Fox barks, pleased to watch the man cringe at the hint of a snarl in his voice. “You’re going to take five large steps away from her right now.”

Before the driver can get any foolhardy ideas of turning tail and diving back into his speeder, Fox allows his hand to drift to his hip, though he’s not reaching to draw. His fingers tap against the holster, not even having to lift it or look down as they adeptly prime the weapon to stun.

There is an audible swallow before the man slowly complies, taking the required amount of steps away from you. Fox nods, satisfied as he clears the distance, immediately putting himself between you and the driver, now allowing the man to know what it feels like to have someone much bigger looming menacingly above him as he glares.

“Now,” his next words are quiet, calm…deadly, “you’re going to get back into your speeder, and you’re going to do exactly as your job has directed you and bring this lady, accompanied by her service dog, to her place of residence.”

He senses the objection coming, and he growls lowly, reaching to grasp at the man’s collar, giving a small tug to enunciate his next words when he speaks them.

“And perhaps,” he says, his words biting in the chilled air, “if you do your task satisfactorily, I will consider having the suspension I’m going to place on your license as soon as you’ve dropped her off reinstated after a week instead of a month as I had originally intended.”

“A month?” the man practically squeaks. “That’s preposterous—”

“And did you really think she was joking about the 5,000-credit fine for service animal access denial?” Fox asks, cutting him off. “I’m sure I could pull some strings and still work that in on top of the suspension if you’d like.”

“Technically, the fine could be doubled to 10,000,” Via pipes up, her mechanical footsteps coming to a stop as she stands beside Fox. “I have recorded evidence that you attempted to physically engage with my mistress without her expressed consent.”

Fox has to restrain the impulse to give the droid a full-out grin as the driver, twitchy and squirming as he already is, falls silent, biting the inside of his cheek before letting out a breath and mutely nodding his head, and as Fox releases the grip he has on his collar, he scurries back into his speeder, opening the back passenger door with a remote as he does.

Is he supposed to use his rank as a Marshal Commander of the Coruscant guard to deliver personal vendettas like this? No, but he’s certainly already exploited his position to do much more ambiguous and morally questionable things, and one lone speeder driver attempting to rat him out for this one will, in all likelihood, fall on deaf ears. So, weighing the odds, he’s satisfied and feeling just pissed off and petty enough that he’s willing to take the risk.

“Fox,” your voice escapes you in a breath as you move forward, catching his arm and looking up at him with wide eyes.

“It’s all sorted,” Fox says, trying to sound reassuring as he places a hand lightly over yours. “He’ll get you home with no trouble.”

“But, I…” despite your inability to articulate, he sees it. A single glance you throw towards the speeder displays the anxiety and fear still very real and present within your eyes, and Fox understands, the pieces clicking together in his mind like a puzzle.

Fox can tell just by watching the man through his window—fumbling with his keys and sending nervous glances over his shoulder, as if he’s concerned that Fox might change his mind and instead demand him to surrender his license on the spot—that he’s eliminated the threat. What Fox hasn’t done though, and what he should be wholly focussed on right now, is eliminating your fear.

“You don’t feel safe with him,” he states, watching as you nod your head.

“No,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t.”

Of course, you don’t. Fox internally kicks himself. Why would you even under normal circumstances feel safe in a speeder with a man you’ve never met before, let alone one who’s angered and personally confronted and threatened you within the span of several minutes. And that’s only what Fox had witnessed.

Right, he thinks. Time to fix that.

Fox gives the hand that’s still curled around his bicep a small squeeze, feeling how unwilling your fingers seem to be to let go, and as he looks up, watching the way you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, an idea sparks.

“Bet you thought you were going to drive away from here and get rid of me,” Fox mutters darkly, startling the driver as he ducks inside the back of the speeder, shifting to the other side of the seat. “Not a chance.”

“Come on, Cyar’ika,” he calls to you, voice warm as he invitingly pats the available row of seats at his side. “Let’s get the two of you home.”

“Mandy.”

Your voice is a soft, quiet call within the silence, and even the sound of it makes you startle slightly and flinch, eyes uncertainly flicking towards the front of the speeder. You desire to make yourself small and inconsequential, as inconspicuous to the unwilling and already annoyed driver as you possibly can.

Angry people are unpredictable, and you have no desire to be in his targeting range. But you also, despite the fact that there is a fully trained and armed clone commander sitting at your side, need comfort. You need the reassurance that you’re not alone and that you’re safe, and sometimes only your guide dog can do that, making the nights feel less dark and the paths you wander never lonely because she’s there leading you through them and standing at your side, as constant as the air that you’re breathing.

When her head pops up from where she’s been lying down at your feet, eyes shining through the evening’s encroaching darkness, you smile, though it’s strained, and reach down to stroke one of her long, soft ears.

“Hey, girl,” you whisper, leaning forward to bump your forehead against hers. The proximity is familiar, the feeling of her fur imprinted on your memory like the back of your own hand. “You’re so good.”

“You call her Mandy?” Fox asks, his voice low and amused at your side as he watches you.

“Sometimes,” you say, straightening as you continue to pet her fondly. “It’s one of her many nicknames.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of you speak, looking at each other as the traffic blurs by outside the windows.

“Do you have any?” you ask, suddenly seizing on the opportunity for conversation, craving any kind of distraction from this mess. “Nicknames, I mean.”

“Not really,” he responds, shaking his head before pausing and glancing down, his cheeks warming with a slightly embarrassed heat. “Well, sometimes my brothers call me ‘Fox’ika,’ just to piss me off.”

“What does it mean?” you ask, privately suspecting that it’s another term in Mando’a, but not wanting to reveal to him that you knew of his prior slip up.

Right now, what he had called you can exist in your mind, and you can smile and blush about it all you want. But if you said anything, if you let him know that he had given voice to the feelings you were becoming more and more aware were stirring within you for the commander, it would become real, and with reality comes the knowledge that it was probably nothing more than accidental.

You’re not ready to let that go, not just yet. The fantasy that he could think of you in that way, that he could want you in that way is just too good, too enchanting—enough to give you butterflies every time you think of that one, simple term of endearment that means everything to you but probably means absolutely nothing to him—to let go of just yet. So you don’t.

“Adding ‘-ika’ to a word makes it more diminutive,” Fox explains, oblivious to your inner mess of conflicting thoughts and feelings. “Little. It would be like calling me ‘Little Fox,’ you know?”

“That is kind of cute,” you can’t help but admit, your smile cheeky as you look up at him.

You’re imagining this tall, well-built, and highly competent clone commander as nothing more than an adorable, little fox looking up at you with wide eyes, and you can’t help but grin.

“Oh, please,” Fox groans, placing a hand on his heart. “Your betrayal has wounded me grievously.”

His voice is so stoic, so serious and deadpan that you can’t help but snort, a small giggle slipping past your lips before you can stop it. Fox pokes you in the side, which makes you instinctively slap his hand away as you begin to laugh more, until there’s a small, but audible huff of irritation from the driver's seat of the speeder. You stop, all of your previous safety and feelings of starting to be at ease retreating in an instant, your previous anxiety and discomfort snapping back like an elastic band being pulled to its limits and rebounding.

Fox notices your sudden stillness, your startling and abrupt retreat back within yourself. He frowns, and before you know it, your hands are intertwined with his. Your eyes widen. You’re taken off-guard for an instant because while the warmth of his hands and their steady, reassuring weight against yours has become familiar to you, the barrier of gloves in between is gone, and the palms that cradle yours are soft, warm, and grounding.

He lifts one of yours, guiding it until the palm is flipped face down, lightly resting against Mandalore’s warm, soft forehead.

“She’s here,” he states, lightly stroking the back of your fingers before letting go, leaving your hand settled against the guide dog’s soft fur.

The warmth of his touch completely surrounds and envelops your hand as he cradles it, taking the one remaining between both of his and guiding it to rest against his thigh, making no move to push you off or retreat as he looks down at you.

“I’m here,” he says, his voice a low, soothing rumble that’s just above a whisper in the darkness.

He presses your hand against his, and you feel the rough calluses built up from years of handling blasters and weapons as his fingertips trace against your knuckles.

“You’re almost home, Cyar. Just two more minutes,” he murmurs, glancing down at his comm as it tracks your progress on a map. “And me and Mandy aren’t going anywhere in the meantime.”

You swallow, shifting closer to him and nodding your head. You should be relieved, should be happy that you’re almost home and you can finally get away from this speeder that smells of stale cigars and dirty old caf cups and from the driver who has done nothing but make you feel uncomfortable and unsafe this whole time.

But all you can think as you look up at Fox and continue holding onto his hands, is consequences be damned. You really just want to lean forward, press your lips against his, and kiss him until the two of you are breathless right now.

“Are you good from here?”

You give Fox a small nod of your head, but make no move to extricate your arm from where it’s nestled in the crook of his elbow. Truthfully, you had been good some distance ago, as soon as the speeder had pulled up in front of your house. You knew where you were going, but he had still offered out his arm and guided you down the pathway, up the steps, and straight to your door with such uncharacteristically gentle attentiveness that you found yourself unable to refuse him, and since your hand is still shaking and you’re still throwing glances over your shoulder as the speeder drives off, so what if you’re enjoying someone fussing over you just a little? Right now, you’ll take it.

“You know, we will sort this out,” Fox says, voice quieter as he glances down at the hand still looped through his arm, sensing your hesitation. “This won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.”

In all honesty, Fox is fully preparing himself to march straight up to Senator Organa’s office, because he knows that out of most of the fools who work in the Senate Building, he will at least respectfully listen and take the security concerns towards his lower staff members seriously when Fox informs him of them. If nothing else—if your right to having consistent, accommodating transportation to and from work isn’t enough—then surely the knowledge that the Guard still hasn’t managed to catch the culprit behind the abductions surrounding his committee and the fact that you have to travel in unregulated and unsecure transports will be.

“I know,” you say, looking up at him through your eyelashes. Reluctantly, you let your hand fall away from where it’s been holding onto his arm, turning to unlock your door. “Thanks for getting me home. I don’t think I would’ve felt safe without having you there.”

The door opens, and you raise one foot to step through the threshold. Then, possessed by some reckless, unthinking urge, you turn around, clear the distance between the two of you in several quick, small steps, rise up onto your tiptoes. and with one of your hands holding onto his shoulder for leverage, press your lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss.

Fox’s brain short circuits. One minute, he’s thinking about speaking to Senator Organa and potential breaches in security, and the next all of his thoughts are swept away and instantly consumed by you, the hand that holds onto his armored shoulder feeling so light and inconsequential, and yet even through the plastoid, the touch is present and poignant, burning through his skin to the bones that lie beneath.

When your lips meet his, he feels the way in which they part, making way for a soft exhalation of breath that brushes against his own skin and his eyes widen, surprised and all at once wanting. He lifts a hand, undecided between whether he wants to tug you closer by one of your hips so he can indulge himself in knowing what it feels like to have you pressed up against him, or to lightly and with a gentleness he didn’t know he wanted to have, lift his hand to brush his fingers against the soft cheek unmarred by scars as his is and hold it within the gentle press of his palm as he cradles the side of your face, keeping your lips pressed against his exactly where he wants you, where he needs you, with a sudden fervor and to the very core of his being.

Fox isn’t given the chance to do either of those things.

Mandalore, evidently impatient to get inside so she can finally be relieved of her work duties, gives an exasperated shake, jingling the metal in both her leash and harness as she waits by the door for you to return. You jump back, looking for all the world like you have just been caught doing something completely inexcusable. Fox doesn’t understand the twisting, sinking feeling in his chest when he catches sight of your expression, and you don’t give him much time to investigate it further.

“I…forgive me, Commander.”

Your words come out in a barely there whisper, and before he can respond—before he can even think about the over half-a-dozen responses in his head, ranging from a casual “nothing to forgive,” to a “please, do it again,” to just taking you by your fidgeting hands, spinning you so that you’re pinned against the wall and pressing his lips against yours until you’ve forgotten all about your previous apologies—you’re turning and scurrying away, eyes widened as if you’re a frightened tooka, and retreat back into the safety of your house, the tap of Mandalore’s paws click-clacking against the hardwood floor following after you, seeming to echo the accompanying silence, the abrupt and startling standstill that takes place in Fox’s mind as soon as you’ve disappeared behind the door.

Fox stares, eyes equally wide, at the panelled wood that now stands between the two of you, his breath caught in his throat. His lips are still parted, still eager, and still waiting to be given another kiss that he now knows is not coming.

It takes him a long, long time to summon the energy, the willpower, to turn and step away from your door and slowly descend the three porch steps.

Fox doesn’t know how he manages it, but, coward that he is, he walks away, hating himself more and more with every step that he takes as he leaves you behind.

•Thank You to @strangergraphics-archive for these adorable puppy dividers

#commander fox x reader #commander fox #Commander Fox #marshal commander fox #The clone wars fanfiction #tcw fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #Reader insert #x reader #female reader #tcw #the clone wars #sw the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #star wars #coruscant guard #Ireadwithmyears fics

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alwayslurkinginthebackground · 3 months ago

Text

Sleepless - A "Kissing You" Drabble

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader Warnings: I'm gonna go with M. There's brief mention of spice here, but nothing exceptionally graphic. Still, it's mentioned. Word Count: 1279 Prompt #33: Soft kisses while cuddling in bed. a/n: For Frankie's Wife. I hope you feel better soon. <3

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You can't sleep.

It's not that you haven't tried to sleep, because you have. You strategically put your phone on the other side of the room hours ago, sprayed your pillow with a lavender mist that was supposed to help you relax, made a cup of chamomile tea, and settled into your bed with a book to wind down for the evening. You did everything you were supposed to do, and yet hours later you're still tossing and turning beneath the down comforter that simultaneously leaves you too hot and too cold at the same time. With a huff, you turn once more to glance at the clock beside your bed, the only light you've allowed to permeate your space reading 1:58 a.m.

Five hours. 300 fucking minutes spent naming countries that start with each letter of the alphabet and counting metaphorical sheep in a last-ditch effort to get some rest.

At this point though you know there's no reason to continue frustrating yourself by staring at the dark depths of the ceiling above your head, so you flip on the TV, squinting as the light blinds you momentarily. It doesn't take you long to scroll through the channels, clicking the button repeatedly until you pass something familiar and hit the back button.

Minutes later you've retrieved your phone, Frankie's number dialed and the line ringing.

"Cariño?" Frankie questions, his voice rough. It cracks slightly as he continues, "are you okay?"

The guilt hits you instantly, the realization that normal people are actually asleep at two in the morning settling in and you quickly backtrack. "Shit, sorry. You were sleeping."

He clears his throat on the other end of the line, "No, no. It's fine. What's wrong?"

You're suddenly silent, and you can hear the quiet rustle of his bedsheets as he shifts his position. He likes to sleep on his stomach, usually draped over your torso with his face pressed into the valley between your breasts, but you'd be willing to be that he's on his back now, raking a hand through his mess of hair in an attempt to wake up for your benefit.

"I can't sleep," you finally blurt out, "and I turned on the TV and When Harry Met Sally is on and it just made me think of you and..."

"Hey, slow down for a second," he laughs, the sound of his voice ringing in your ear and immediately soothing you in a way the chamomile never can. There's a beat of silence and then suddenly you hear the soft hum of his own TV turning on. "What channel?"

A smile creeps across your face as you tell him, Meg Ryan's voice echoing through the phone and matching the way she's talking about Casablanca on your own screen. "You're not actually watching it, are you?"

"Figured it was better than that dream I had again where I'm making love and the Olympic judges are watching. I'd nailed the..."

"Frankie shut up," you giggle as he continues to repeat the line he's had memorized since the first time you made him watch the film. He has you in a laughing fit in seconds, restarting the line over in time with the movie when the scene plays soon after. You discuss your hunt for the perfect white sweater, talk about how Billy Crystal looks superior with a beard, and debate the legitimacy of how women actually sound, which mostly turns into Frankie reminding you about the way he made you scream last weekend when he had you pressed against the kitchen counter.

By the time New Year's Eve rolls around at the end of the movie, he's quoting line for line again, except he replaces each of Harry's examples with what he loves about you. That he loves how 80 degrees is too warm for you, and that you always check the menu and know what you're ordering eight hours before arriving at the restaurant. You're faintly aware of him reminding you about the way your eyes crinkle at the edges when he makes you smile and how he loves that you smell like lavender, even though you actually hate the scent and just won't admit it. When the channel starts to roll into Sleepless in Seattle, your eyes have drifted shut, letting the sound of your boyfriend narrating the movie lull you to sleep.

When you wake hours later, you're blinded by the sunlight shining through the curtains and directly onto your face, heating your skin. Your hazy mind struggles to remember if you added your weighted blanket to your bed the night before, only when you shift to block the sun you realize that you most definitely did not.

"Frankie?"

He groans softly, nestling his face further into the soft fabric of your t-shirt. "Still asleep," he mumbles, "someone kept me up all night."

You run your fingers through his hair, pushing the unruly curls back from his forehead. "I don't seem to remember you being in my bed when I fell asleep."

His gaze is warm when he shifts to rest his chin on your chest. "You fell asleep on me," he explains, "and then I couldn't sleep."

It's impossible not to laugh. "That still doesn't explain how you ended up in my bed, Francisco."

Frankie smirks as he presses kiss after kiss along your body until he's rolling on his back at your side, pulling you against him and guiding your lips to his gently. You sigh as you melt into him, lazily matching his rhythm.

"You still haven't answered my question," you remind him, your lips still brushing against his. He draws a smile to your face as he guides you back in, his hand leading your motions as he kisses you again.

"Maybe I just needed to be with you to fall back asleep," he explains once you've tucked your head into the crook of his neck. "Or maybe..." he continues slowly, his lips tracing along your forehead as he speaks, "maybe when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

It takes a moment, your mind turning his words over and over in his head until you start to realize that maybe he isn't just quoting Billy Crystal anymore. "Frankie?"

He hums, but you know he's grinning before you even pull back to see his expression. "Yes, love?"

It feels like your heart is going to pound out of your chest as you will yourself to ask the next question. "Are you just quoting the movie again?"

Your boyfriend seems to consider this for a moment before he shifts again, reaching over to the table on the side of the bed he's claimed as his own. You wait, moving to sit with your legs crossed as you watch him retrieve something from the drawer. He turns back to you, "I was going to do this differently, but..."

He doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence because you're on him immediately, hands cupping his cheeks and holding him as close as possible as you seal your lips to his. "Yes," you whisper, just a breath away when you both come up for air.

"I haven't even asked yet," Frankie laughs.

"Doesn't matter," you return, because it's the easiest answer you've ever given even without the question to precede it. "You don't need to ask me if I want to spend the rest of my life with you because you know you make it impossible to hate you. Which means," you kiss him again, "the answer will always be yes."

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#frankie morales x reader #kissing you #frankie morales #lurking and writing

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cambionverse · 20 days ago

Note

By any chance are we getting anything for Jesse’s birthday this year 👀 👀 👀

something small! it has been one of those...years...and we don't want to begin posting more chapters of envesseled until we have the ENTIRE fic complete, because that's gotten us in a little trouble narrative-wise. so one thing we did was edited what we had so far, and those edits have been applied to the version that's on ao3 now! though probably no one will notice but us, lol.

that being said, we can't let the day pass without SOME kind of writing getting posted, so we do have a short excerpt (about 1200 words) that takes place early during chapter 7.

thanks so much for everyone who still cares about and is patiently waiting on an update to this verse <3 it is being worked on!! it'll just take time.

---

In another country, in another room, Claire falls through her nightmare again.

It's getting harder to wake her up, Jesse reports; on the rare nights when Claire manages to fall asleep at all, she goes so deep as to be nearly unrousable. He doesn't say sleep like the dead, but there are certainly nights where the weight of a blanket presses Claire down like grave dirt.

The car crashes. She feels Castiel outside, sees her father inside. Blinks, and her father's face becomes Ben's. He reaches towards her face with his blood-covered fingers, horribly gentle, and Claire is locked in her body as she tries to scream—

"You're okay! You're okay. We're in Veracruz, remember? Some hotel I don't remember the name of, but you're safe." There's the slightest fraction of a pause, and then: "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Slowly Jesse's voice penetrates the blind panic. He's learned not to touch her when she's like this—the backlash of grace is too much for both of them—but the stream of reassurances, fruitless as they are, grounds her. She never sees Jesse in her dreams. He's one of the realest people she's ever known.

"Okay?" Jesse asks, when her breathing has slowed to a respectable degree.

Claire hates it when he asks her that. It's not like she can lie. "Go back to sleep."

"Only if you do too," says Jesse. He knows it won't happen; even before all this, Claire couldn't fall back asleep once she woke up. It used to be Jesse who woke up with nightmares, and Ben who talked him down from the ledge. She's listened to it from the other bed a hundred times. Now all that's left are the calm hum of Ben's bracelet on her wrist and Ben's words coming from Jesse's mouth.

She can't go back to sleep. She can't bear to see that empty face again.

"We're not far from the ocean," Jesse continues, nodding towards the window. "And it'll be dawn before much longer. Wanna step out for some air?"

Claire climbs out of the bed which is not her grave and follows Jesse outside.

It's warm here, even in February, the air humid with salt and the faint sound of waves. There's music playing at a nearby resort, cut through by a car speeding past with its radio blasting. They don't see any other patrons of this particular hotel, but Claire still twists at her braid, trying to look less like she and Jesse just left the same bed.

To her surprise, Jesse hasn't led them out the main hotel exit but through an interior door to the hotel's open courtyard. His face is lit from below from the wavy blue lights of the swimming pool. "So," he says. "You know how you said a fluke is just a skill you haven't practiced yet?"

Claire tilts her head. She remembers saying that to Ben, on one of the many occasions they were discussing how best to train Jesse's new powers without pushing him too far, but she doesn't recall saying as much to Jesse himself. Her heart clenches at the thought of Ben using her words for encouragement.

"Well, the first time was definitely a fluke," Jesse continues, leading her closer to the pool. It's at this point Claire realizes he too has gone barefoot. "But lately I figured, why not see if I could do it again? And I think I've got the trick of it now."

The chlorine-smell of the air reminds Claire of the last time they stayed somewhere with a pool, the hotel where she took an all-night "laundry trip" to have a psychic tell her her soul was eroding. She'd been so frustrated by the time she got back that she'd parked the truck and walked straight into the water, clothes and all. She screamed until she needed to come up for air and then kept screaming, cursing Castiel even though he never listened, until the sudden sight of Jesse staring wide-eyed over his cigarette had shocked her quiet. Somehow, Jesse is always sneaking up on her.

The Jesse of today gives a wry salute. Then, much like Claire so many months ago, he steps off the deep end.

Except he doesn't sink like Claire did. Jesse leaves solid ground and just keeps walking.

Genuine wonder breaks through the ice and grace surrounding Claire's heart. "Jesse," she breathes. He looks...proud of himself, for once, and Claire realizes she hasn't seen that expression in a long time. Even when Ben was here, he'd been too stressed tracking down a cure for Claire to indulge in learning new tricks just for the fun of it. He walks the length of the pool, does a little spin, and returns to the deeper water.

"Well?" he says, and holds out a hand to her. "Water's fine."

"I'll sink," Claire says at once, though her own hand reaches out by instinct—he's been carrying her so many places these days.

The pool water ripples gently under Jesse's bare feet. "I won't let you."

Claire realizes that she wants to try—just to see, just for herself, even if it ends with a cold plunge. She hasn't wanted anything since Seattle, not really. Something about Jesse's tricks makes her remember what that's like. "Don't drop me," she instructs.

"I haven't yet, have I?" Jesse replies, and tugs her forward.

There's a shock of wetness, not unlike the sensation of dipping her feet in the edge of a river, but gravity doesn't pull them down below the surface. Instead the water supports them with a gentle pressure unlike any ground she's ever walked.

"Jesse," Claire hears herself say again. Looking through the clear water below gives her the same entrancing vertigo as being on top of the Space Needle—better, almost, because for the first time there's nothing to separate her from the drop. She takes a few more steps, watching the water ripple out from her feet. When she tilts her face up to look at Jesse again, Claire can feel her face almost remember how to smile.

For a second she wobbles—one foot slips under, water lapping at her ankle—but the next moment Jesse's grip tightens and he's right there beside her, his other arm around her waist. "Sorry," he says, moving them both above shallower waters. "You looked—sorry."

Claire rests her free hand against Jesse's chest as droplets fall from her left heel. He's swaying a little, whether from her slip or from catching her out of it, but there's still distant music echoing from somewhere outside and after a moment Claire realizes their slow movement has aligned with the rhythm of the drums.

Here they are, a deadly weapon of Hell and a shattered glass of grace that an angel dropped, holding hands and looking at their feet like a boy and girl at their first school dance. It's the moment where, in a proper romance, the boy would tilt her backwards and kiss her under the stars. Claire feels her heart clench, and she doesn't even know if it's aversion or trepidation or something—lighter. Something like anticipation.

#claire novak #jesse turner #claire/jesse #writing #envesseled #asks

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yanderes-galore · 5 months ago

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yandere zombie John hcs?

Here's icky zombie man, hope you love him because he loves you.

Yandere! Zombie! John Marston Concept

Pairing: Platonic/Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Slight gore/blood, Possessive/Protective behavior, Murder, Forced companionship/relationship.

Honestly, this could go one of two ways.

You knew John back in RDR2 and met him again during this outbreak, unfortunately he's infected.

That, or, you have never met this man in your life and now you have a zombie following you around.

What's even worse is the fact John isn't entirely mute as a zombie.

Most of the others have the benefit of being mute when they turn.

John? Nah, with him you get what sounds like the equivalent to the screams of the damned.

At least... That's according to his 'Undead Cowboy' outfit.

John failed to survive this outbreak and now he's left to shamble through the west with seemingly no direction.

It could be interesting that he found you and recognized you as an old member of the gang...

That or he just found a human he could get attached to, following them around like some lost puppy.

It doesn't matter how you meet him, you nearly have a heart attack regardless.

I like to think you're helping out a settlement or looting some abandoned coach... Only to turn and see John staring you down with glazed over eyes... pardon, eye.

John's lost an eye, his lips have rotted away, and he has a horrid green complexion to his skin.

His clothes are tattered and bloody... yet he seems oddly docile.

Knowing you can't afford to waste bullets or fire on a zombie such as him, you keep your eye on him and ignore him.

Hopefully he just wanders off... even he just seems to stare at you.

I like to think John is partially blind, too.

His sight is rotting away so he can't entirely see you.

But he does know you're there.

You only ever run when he makes an attempt to come closer, making a raspy yet loud noise as if trying to call to you.

It's then, regardless of if he's an old friend or not, you ditch.

You leave so fast when John tries to shamble after you.

Unfortunately, this is not the first time you see John.

You see John plenty after this, actually.

While his face is mostly rotted, it appears John can still smell you to a degree.

It's small but... he can sense you.

The good news for you is he's rather blind and can't smell all that much.

If you really wanted to... you could probably keep him around as a pet in a way?

You will eventually learn he's docile only towards you and probably use it to your advantage.

Originally you think he's just docile because he's weakened.

Although... It appears your new zombie companion has other motives.

John seems to listen when you talk to him.

Although when he starts trying to talk to you... You quickly shush him.

He's so loud and it's hard to understand him.

You're thankful you have gloves... whenever John tries to talk to you just, hold his jaw closed.

Which then leads to John making upset grumbles.

John isn't as affectionate as zombies like Sean.

He mostly respects your space and just likes to stumble around you.

Before you took him as a companion, John would stand at a distance from wherever you're staying.

He's outside abandoned cabin windows, just beyond your tent...

The weirdest thing is you've noticed he can use firearms... somewhat.

While John can indeed pounce and bite like other undead creatures...

One time you were in danger, disarmed in an attack.

Then John shot one of your handguns at a zombie, before gesturing for you to light it on fire.

It... surprises you that he's retained basic survival skills.

He isn't entirely a feral beast.

This event may actually be the one that makes you keep him.

Much to his pleasure.

John is actually aware of being dead.

This is no doubt one of the reasons he isn't affectionate towards his obsession.

He is completely aware that you'd find that weird.

Especially since he keeps gooping everywhere....

John retains quite a bit of humanity as a zombie.

He doesn't particularly like indulging in human meat.

When you offer him the corpses of bandits, part of him yearns for it...

Although he ends up just stealing animal meat or something.

He... doesn't want to scare you.

In a strange way John cares for you and despises the idea of harming you.

He's less of a guard dog and more of a bodyguard since he lacks a feral demeanor.

Eventually you can make out basic responses in his rotting voice.

Things like 'Hi', 'Thanks', 'Yes', 'No'...

All very basic communication but it's something.

One time you could even make out a 'Sorry...' when he spooked you.

Many find it strange and odd you managed to tame a zombie.

John makes no effort to attack you, following you the best he can.

It's not like you need a lead or anything.

The one issue is horses...

You have to find a wagon or something to put on your horse in order to have John stick with you.

John's only ever hostile towards threats.

Other zombies, violent humans...

Survivors just trying to survive are spared by John.

You often look away when John attacks people....

He doesn't like eating people... but manages it because sometimes he has to.

You try desperately to ignore the sickening tearing and squelching noises made... along with the screaming....

John's mostly protective, yet he can be possessive too.

He hovers around you, 'watches' your every move...

He never wants to leave you.

You could easily get rid of him, yes.

But he's also your best weapon in this environment.

Having a clingy zombie is a small price to pay for safety, right?

For the most part, John is just overly protective.

He's possessive if people get too close.

Although... let's be honest... who's getting close to the person with the zombie following you around?

John's just about your only companion...

He'll be yours until you die... Even then, he'll still have you for as long as your body's still functioning after death.

#yandere red dead redemption #yandere rdr #yandere rdr1 #yandere undead nightmare #yandere rdr zombie au

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larathia · 3 months ago

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Dragon Prince thoughts - no really, Magic = Love

You hear the phrase within the series now and again - usually repeated in the same platitudinous way you'd hear "friendship is magic" on My Little Pony episodes. It's treated as a kind of optimistic affirmation, not something literally real.

But I think the real secret to the magic in this setting is it is, in fact, actually literally the case that Magic and Love are very deeply intertwined, and I think that's the secret of Dark Magic too. Because, as Pratchett once observed, hate and love are very nearly the same thing, emotionally. It's the same focus, the same passion, just hate has its back turned.

I think, too, that the majority of people in the setting therefore have it backwards. It's not that "humans have no magic". Everything that lives has the potential for magic. It's that humans have traded an 'in' on one type of magic for being generally capable of doing any and ALL types of magic, as a species.

...Oh...I've probably got to explain this. Lemme put a cut here before I go breaking people's dashes.

Mmmk. Let me take this in ...more or less order.

Humans aren't WITHOUT magic - they're highly GIFTED at magic.

That's nonsensical on the face of it, but really think about it in a big-picture way. Elves, all the elves, are born with one kind of magic. They don't get to choose it. It defines their culture, their tribe, their worldview. Regardless of whether an individual elf is suited to any of that.

Consider, as a really quick and obvious example, Rayla. Rayla the moon elf, who almost never uses illusions, who's typically highly honest and straightforward, an assassin who really sucks at being an assassin. Yes, she has access to Moon arcana, but not much, and she's not suited to it. The moon elves that are most connected to their arcana ARE secretive, prone to obfuscation, mystery, subterfuge. Personality meshing with the arcana they're born to, creating a powerful mage.

Consider the sun elf Karim, stated in canon to be the strongest sunfire mage bar none. He's direct. Bold. Strong physically and mentally. Ambitious, and unbending. These are all traits of the Sun arcana, and he shares them to an actually detrimental degree - but it makes him one hell of a sunfire mage. Who he is meshes with the arcana he's born with.

Consider, too, that every elf being born connected to an Arcana means every elf - however weakly - is directly bound to some aspect of the natural world, meaning there's a background drive to preserve and protect that aspect. They care, and caring is sort of like Stage 1 Love.

Now...let's consider how they almost HAVE to view humans. Pitiful, short-lived creatures, born without any connection to the arcana. How do you teach a blind man about colors? How do you explain sounds to the deaf? Elves are at a disadvantage trying to teach humans about magic because 1) any given elf knows only one arcana, and 2) they've had it their whole lives. Teaching someone how to sense it is a huge hurdle, and that's just the teacher. Tack on that every human's different and no wonder elves think teaching a human magic would take most of a human's lifespan just for basic spells.

Elves think of humans as...well, magically handicapped. Which makes humans angry and envious and...hateful. And because a lot of humans are approaching elves to learn magic because magic has power, they're...well. Firstly, not in the right mindset even at the start, and secondly, it's going to make the consumptive, destructive aspect of Dark magic look that much more attractive because fuck you, elves, fuck you.

The history of human magecraft is that of power-seeking. Of course it went wrong. But it didn't have to.

Look at Callum. He's done Dark magic, now and then, but never really took to it. To him, magic is beautiful. Creative. Wonderful. He's not in it for the power. He's in it because he loves it (LOVE) and because he wants to help his friends (CARE). He's not in this for glory or might, and even when he gets authority and title he has no problem handing both of them back. His most useful power, flight, was gained while trying to save someone else's life. Most of his magic is like that; something he works out when he needs to help someone else. It's very rare for him to play the badass, and when he does it's against another mage...and again, to save his companions.

He learns magic out of love. He practices it out of love. He mastered the Air arcana first, probably because it's very liberating and he's always kind of been bound, his whole life, to the royal family and its duty. But he can dip into other arcana when he needs to - something that stuns everyone else - because he's not treating it like Power to be grabbed. He tries his best to understand the natural forces around him, and when he taps into them, it's out of love. It's not that he's a natural genius (although the photographic memory and art training help a LOT) but simply that he approaches the entire situation differently than humans typically do.

#dragon prince #tdp #the dragon prince

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oneatlatime · 1 year ago

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Sokka's Master

pleasebegoodpleasebegoodpleasebegoodpleasebegoodpleasebegood

Strange choice of master but we'll see where this goes.

The meteor shower animation is quite meditative. I wouldn't mind it as a screensaver.

How to describe something exceptional to your blind friend: "You've never not seen anything like this." It's amazing the quality put into even the tiniest of throwaway jokes.

Are meteor strikes flammable?

I love how whenever Sokka's disappointed he gets noodle arms. A surprisingly consistent characterisation.

Momo butt skate.

Iroh. The fuck?

ok. So he's playing a part for the guards. Why?

Pretty.

Funny to think about, but as a former WWE character, Toph's probably had more hero worship than the Avatar.

Lots to say about this! First, I stand corrected! i honestly thought that Sokka would be immune to this specific insecurity by virtue of him not being a bender. I was wrong! Second, I love how, as soon as Sokka expresses that he feels that he isn't as talented as the rest of them, the others respond by listing his actual, invaluable talents, without which the group would be completely at sea. They don't respond with "no you're perfect!" they respond with "no one can read a map like you can" and how he keeps their spirits up with jokes. They're not using false praise. They are using specific facts. I love that an episode that looks like it's going to deal with a character feeling down on themselves establishes from the get go that the character is invaluable, actually. So often, the 'low self esteem stock episode' puts the affirmation of the character's value at the end. Which means the viewer spends the whole episode being convinced that the character in question might actually be useless. Here, we're told from the start that the character is invaluable - the problem is that they do not perceive themselves to be so. Quite on the nose for a show that deals so much with identity.

OMIGOD IT GETS BETTER!!!!!!!!!!

Validating Katara sweeps in and a) validates his feelings, while b) clearly explaining that his self-perception is not in line with how the others see him, which c) doesn't invalidate a) !!!!

Katara has such emotional intelligence when she chooses to use it.

Nuanced intelligent discussion of the complexities of emotions and self-perception in a Sokka episode I am so happy I am blessed the gods are shining on me today I'm sitting here twirling my hair and swinging my feet and doodling hearts on the corner of my journal

SHOPPING!!!!!

btw that's the same face he makes when he says SUKI!!!

"Reinvigorate my battling" this boy. just. this boy.

He lasted a lot longer than I would have with nun chucks.

Aang the Happy Meal toy.

Some say that Halberd is still spinning today.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present: the 45 degree Sokka.

Some Foley artist had the time of their life with this weapons sequence.

Why thank you for that exposition, Mr. Exposition. Now walk away and we'll never see you again.

Toph does NOT move ONCE this whole scene and it's ever so slightly freaking me out.

Toph tells you she learned from Badgermoles and no one wants to discuss this further?!? We're going to gloss over that?

So this episode has a training montage theme.

Sokka goes freestyle on those door knockers.

That's one hell of a castle. Must be dark in there though. Tiny windows.

Which explains the several hundred candles. This show. Set up with one hand; slam dunk with the other.

This guy's reciting Sokka's s1 introduction on Kyoshi Island.

Sokka: Actually. I am a dumb. The Master: Sold.

The face of someone who is definitely picking up what you're putting down.

It's been ages since I watched the episode, but is some of what the Master saying here about swords an echo of what Zuko says to the kid in Zuko Alone when he's decapitating sunflowers?

A Sokka-less Gaang. Depressing and they know it.

The way Katara's voice actor says "oh everyone's a critic" is gold.

Multidisciplinary education vs. kid who's never been within a mile of the box he's being told to think outside of. Fight!

Yikes that was a meaty hit. Does Sokka have a nose left?

They're wearing beehives on their heads.

Was Sokka always this short?

The greens in this episode are such a delight.

The way he says "I'm finished!" Sounds like "Am finished" and you can actually hear the smiley emoji he throws in.

He's good.

What do they FEED him?

Sokka's voice actor had a great time this episode. All the voice actors had a great time actually.

Sokka invents the La Z Boy

Katara inadvertently invents a fandom war by attempting a joke.

They're all so useless and it's wonderful.

That was all only one day? That's a lot of outfit changes for one day.

"You mess things up in a very special way." Compliment? Let's go with compliment.

Sokka is so very Sokka this episode.

A reason to live is coming!

*thundering herds of shippers in the distance*

That's clever. The inciting incident gets smelted. Haven't seen that before.

This whole Iroh gets buff montage has been completely dialogue free on Iroh's part. Crazy levels of inner peace, that he'd doesn't need to snark back at the guard.

Seriously. What are they FEEDING these children. Also how is that door that shiny.

Sokka really has it in for those door knockers.

Apropos of nothing, the clouds in this episode are all so yummy. All these soft slate colours and misty layers.

Meteoric iron is actually a thing, right?

Ok but aren't mold made swords crappy?

HI YUE

I love how they managed to made a crafting montage where the character who does the least work is the one who looks like he's working the hardest.

"I saw a heart as strong as my garden decor"

"No it certainly wasn't your skills. You had none."

Creativity, versatility, intelligence, meat, sarcasm.

You've known him like two days and you can already tell he's more worthy than any man you've ever trained? Sounds like you had poor taste in students.

"No. This is my fight. Alone." Bro you are going to DIE. The first time you held a sword was two days ago. You might need the avatar on this one.

Guard who never shuts up actually kind of has a point here. He's a dick about as usual, but it's entirely possible that the rank and file of the Fire Nation army view Iroh's actions as a betrayal. Does anyone remember in Star Wars movie number 7, or maybe 8, when that Trooper sees Finn after he's switched sides and yells "traitor!" and it's the best part of the movie? Yeah, like that.

This episode throws the concept of linear time out the window. In two days, Iroh gets swole and Sokka masters sword fighting.

Do you think Sokka's realised yet that this is his final exam?

Yummy yummy clouds.

One in a million pocket sand shot.

One in a million stick placement.

So this master is like a sword spirit or something. He can't be human. There's no way he could get the scabbard to fly on perfectly without seeing.

"Try Lee, There's a million Lees. There's a tea shop in Ba Sing Se that has a super cranky waiter called Lee."

This guy's just this side of committing treason and I love it.

I see this Master is a devotee of the 'Hakoda school of shoving outrageously over the top compliments into Sokka's thick skull in the hopes that 1% of them will stick.' I approve.

This last scene has gorgeous hills and skies but you'll have to take my word for it because I've hit the image limit.

Sokka's been inducted into the super secret boy band!!!

He saved space earth for Toph! He's so considerate! He's fuelling the ships!

Let's compromise and call it space dirt instead.

Final Thoughts

This episode every two minutes: Sokka, you are currently flawless and you're about to get better. Me: Yes. Yep. Yeah. Seconded. I concur.

I like it! It's great! It's 24 minutes of the writers and characters fangirling over Sokka! Of course I like it! It made me criminally overuse exclamation marks! What else can I say?

Hands down my favourite episode is Bato of the Water Tribe. For Sokka's story, this episode is Bato of the Water Tribe part 2. Of course I'm going to love it. This episode was lab grown specifically for me.

Now let's see if I can say something about this episode that isn't poorly disguised squealing.

I love how the characters respond to Sokka saying he's not special with an evidence-based refutation rather than blanket reassurance.

I love how shopping cheers up Sokka. I love how Katara knows that shopping will cheer him up. This must be something she's learned since the show started. I don't think there were malls in the South Pole. So Katara was paying attention when Sokka and Momo went through the bag saga.

I love how much the master is baffled yet impressed by Sokka. He seems almost charmed by this breath of fresh air. I think it's hilarious that, when Sokka first approaches him, he's expecting early season 1 Sokka. He'd better send Suki a thank you card.

I also really like "The way of the sword doesn't belong to any one nation." It seems obvious to us, but in a world where there are weaponisable skills that are quite literally inseparable from the nations their wielders inhabit, it's probably something no one in the Gaang has ever heard before.

Obviously the episode is a little rushed - half hour kid's show and all that - but it's still pretty crazy that you can apparently impart a solid basic knowledge of swordplay in two days.

Toph going all tsundere is funny, and makes Aang and Katara unapologetically desperate for Sokka's company twice as funny as it already is. Toph's like "whatever" and the other two spent the day making a welcome home banner.

I love how Sokka's happiness is always so loud and shameless. It makes it contagious.

This episode highlights what Sokka's actual strengths are, by instructing him in what he thinks his strengths are. If that makes sense? Sokka is brain, which he's finally starting to realise by attending brawn lessons.

He's also heart, and I'll die on that hill.

Iroh getting swole was honestly just a thing that happened. No comment really, except it was interesting to have a reminder from the guard that a character we perceive as the good guy is currently perceived as the bad guy by everyone but us. When the Fire Nation does inevitably get defeated, a whole nation is going to have to reset their worldview and that will not be an easy process.