#of fortuity
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Sometimes the magic items you create inspire your artist to just draw some...things. Even when you didn't request it. :P So, thank you @butturdapple here are your pickled puckering fish of fortuity!
Jar of Pickled Fish of Fortuity
Wondrous Item, uncommon
“These pickled fish aren’t for the faint of heart. Eating ‘em separates the warriors from the wimps. Some walk away stronger for it, some…they never get the chance to walk away. -Mysterious Old Fisherman.”
This jar of pickled fish has 2d10 + 5 small pickled fish in it. If consumed, make a Constitution saving throw DC 10. On failure, you have disadvantage on Strength, Constitution and Dexterity saving throws until you finish a long rest. On success, you have advantage on Strength, Constitution and Dexterity saving throws until you finish a long rest and you gain 2d10 temporary hit points.
#D&D#DnD#Dungeons and Dragons#DnD5e#Homebrew#Magic Item#TTRPG#DnD Homebrew#TTRPG Homebrew#Homebrew Magic Items#DnDaDay#Pickled Fish of Fortuity
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[insert joke about Scanlan actually using Mythcarver here]
#I don't have the mental fortuity to think of a good one rn but know I'm thinking about this#tlovm spoilers#tlovm
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Fuck it, Im going shrug all responsibilitys and become a manic pixy dream boy
#i have the mental fortuity of a gramcracker rn#AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH#wandering aimlessly from town to town surviving exclusively off my oddities and idiosyncrasies being charming to a subsect of lonely people
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Life dies in a blink, but death … it lives for eternity.
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Hi happy Wednesday! Oml the St Jude candle story made me giggle. RIP to the St Jude candle, I guess he was a hopeless cause after that :(( I’m so excited for you that you get to move soon! Yay for seeing and talking to your bf more often also!!! I hope that your trip is so amazing and yall are able to be in contact more regularly soon because you deserve that!
I’m so glad that you’re still having fun with WIP Wednesday! I love reading what you write :) Speaking of, could I please get some baby Jean? Have an amazing week!!! 🤍🤍🤍
prev | Baby Jean | WW 10.1.2024
It wasn't until a fish swam by behind his reflection that Jean took a step back, suddenly aware of the absence of his family. He looked over one shoulder and then the other, as if the lack of squabbling had been because his sisters were trying to sneak up on him. The exhibit in front of him wasn't any of the ones they had even talked about visiting. It did have a few manta rays gliding by, but mostly a bunch of smaller fish that he didn't know the name of.
Suddenly, he felt very, very small.
MASTERPOST
#surprise I don't know the names of fish#and I keep getting distracted whenever I try to look#ww013 10.1.2024#white heart anon <3 <3 <3#baby jean#lee's writing shenanigans#aftg#all for the game#wip wednesday#aftg jean#jean moreau#and eh st jude candle was still halfway there RIP#but yeah! I leave this Sunday and should get there midday Monday @_@#IT'S INSANE I'm still kinda in shock that it worked out so well as far as timing goes#either way it's great for my mental fortuity#although I'm over in the midwest atm and by golly gee is it COLD#my dogs go outside for fifteen second intervals rip#can't even blame them#I hope you're doing well dear!#mwah!#I love getting the chance to check in with you every week!
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And now I'm Austin Summers again. 🤷
My hair has entered The Warren Lipka Era.
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:’)
#the fact that someone finds my fic comforting is blowing my mind i feel so honored!!!!#if you're curious to know about what i'm screaming about consider reading fortuity!#(and broken not lost as well. that one has fanart!)
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ok so ykno how in ITNL vash has largely been brooding? bc he's spent a lot of time alone & there's no need to be putting up a front of cheerfulness when he's alone
in this next chapter he's going to be Around People Again & this means i get to write him as his cheerful friendly personality & i am enjoying it SO much honestly. i love him. a lot.
#speculation nation#itnl shit#like yes it's a front but it's also not#it's a different facet of his personality. the Playfulness.#and yea at certain points (a lot of points) it's just him putting up fake smiles to divert attention from what's inside#but at the Very Least with this first part. it is not emo shit. he's just laughing to himself internally this Entire Time#taking a bit of a page out of 98 vash for this chapter lmao. what fortuity that i started watching 98 around this time
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Jupiter's Influence on Fortuity
🌟 Jupiter in the 1st House: Your countenance is kissed by luck. A myriad of garments adorns your closet, fulfilling every desire. Your style undergoes constant metamorphosis, exuding unwavering confidence. Jupiter bestows joy upon matters of appearance and vitality, fostering an unyielding individuality. Confidence in physique and actions draws attention effortlessly. An optimistic life view and robust overall health accompany this Jupiter placement, rendering you inherently appealing. Financial luck and life's treasures are within your grasp.
💰 Jupiter in the 2nd House: Felicity in fiscal matters, valuing possessions, and indulging in life's pleasures. A captivating conversationalist with profound life acumen, possessing mental fortitude and intelligence. Financial success graces you early in life, with steadfast values deflecting external influence.
🗣️ Jupiter in the 3rd House: Bliss in relationships with kin, fostering understanding and camaraderie. Fortunate occurrences extend to vehicular matters and swift exam success. Your gift of eloquence ensures articulate expression, resonating positively.
🏡 Jupiter in the 4th House: Familial happiness, affluence, or a deep sense of belonging. A harmonious connection with your mother and favorable living arrangements. Fortuitous circumstances surround your dwelling, possibly leading to residence in a dream locale.
🌈 Jupiter in the 5th House: Swift recognition of talents propels you into the limelight. A proclivity for sports and diverse skills define you. Enjoyable encounters characterize your dates, often with like-minded individuals. Favorable outcomes in gambling showcase high self-esteem and risk-taking proclivity.
🌿 Jupiter in the 6th House: Health and physical well-being favorably influenced by luck. An enjoyable and intriguing routine mirrors fortuitous professional endeavors. Financial abundance often emanates from daily work, with new opportunities arising through colleagues.
💑 Jupiter in the 7th House: Luck with relationships, potentially leading to an ideal partner and grand unions. A predisposition for popularity accompanies this placement, with societal recognition and advice-seeking becoming commonplace. Legal professions may find this position particularly advantageous.
💸 Jupiter in the 8th House: Fortune in inheritance, financial dealings, and a shield from misfortune. Profits through investments are likely, and deeper relationships are blessed with happiness. Resilience in matters of the heart ensures swift recovery from emotional setbacks.
🌍 Jupiter in the 9th House: An overall stroke of luck. Frequent travel, exposure to diverse perspectives, and encounters with life-changing individuals define this fortunate position. Enthusiasm and curiosity for the world's wonders infuse your being, making every adventure invigorating.
🚀 Jupiter in the 10th House: Success in your career, often intertwined with financial support from parents or ancestors. Leadership roles and prominence become synonymous with your professional journey. A penchant for travel and cultural exploration characterizes your pursuits.
🤝 Jupiter in the 11th House: Realization of dreams and steadfast, loyal friendships. Your circle is erudite and multilingual, and influential connections propel your advancement. A recognizable presence in social networks is a natural consequence of this fortuitous placement.
🧘 Jupiter in the 12th House: Luck in adversity and a heightened spiritual inclination. Elevated moral standards and a proclivity for altruism characterize your persona. A solitary contemplative nature intertwines with an acute awareness of life's intricacies, guiding your intuitive decisions. Traveling to desired destinations becomes a personal venture shaped by your instincts.
Follow our Facebook page Mage Magic Touch for personal consultations https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61565561190268
#vedic astrology#astro community#astrology facts#astrology observations#astrology#energy#zodiac signs#planets#my notes#astrological houses#birth chart#jupiter#luck#house placements#saturn aspects#astrology notes#astrology houses#astrology placements#astrology blog#lilith#black moon#black moon lilith#mean lilith#astro#astro notes#astro observations#aries#taurus#gemini#cancer
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One of our earlier silly magic items, the Jar of Pickled Fish of Fortuity! It's a very easy DC to hit depending on your class...and some big benefits! Are you eating a fish or not? :)
Jar of Pickled Fish of Fortuity
Consumable, uncommon
“These pickled fish aren’t for the faint of heart. Eating ‘em separates the warriors from the wimps. Some walk away stronger for it, some…they never get the chance to walk away. -Mysterious Old Fisherman.”
This jar of pickled fish has 2d10 + 5 small pickled fish in it. If consumed, you must make a DC 10 Constitution saving throw. On failure, you have disadvantage on Strength, Constitution and Dexterity saving throws until you finish a long rest. On success, you have advantage on Strength, Constitution and Dexterity saving throws until you finish a long rest and you gain 2d10 temporary hit points.
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#D&D#DnD#Dungeons and Dragons#DnD5e#Homebrew#Magic Item#TTRPG#DnD Homebrew#TTRPG Homebrew#Homebrew Magic Items#DnDaDay#Jar of Pickled Fish of Fortuity
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Bittersweet ゚・。
Tired Agent!Rio Vidal x Reader
Tags; FLUFF, very slight angst if you really squint, secretive Rio, & I think that’s its tbh!
A/n: Welcome to my first AAA fic! I’ve been reading them religiously, so I decided to finally write one.
I desperately needed Rio fluff; I hope you all enjoy:)
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The bite of autumn air sent a chill down your spine. The wind rustled through the trees bitterly. The faint residue of rain and mildew infiltrated the air around you bringing a sort of lightheadedness.
Swiftly, you unlocked the door to your lofty home and quickly went inside. The day has dragged by miserably.You wanted nothing more than to sit down and relax. Expectedly, you looked towards the couch thinking it would be inhabited by your girlfriend, but to your disappointment, empty. A small pout formed at your lips.
As the fire burned bright, Soft shades of yellow and red gingerly wrapped the living room in a cozy blanket. The heat from the flames provided an indescribable tranquility. A peaceful forcefield that allowed you to finally forget all your troubles, even for just a moment.
A soft sigh left your lips as you peered at your phone. It dinged with a message from your girlfriend, Rio Vidal.
‘Hey sweetheart, work ran a bit later than expected. Omw now.’
A smile tugged at your lips. How you missed Rio, as a fbi agent she's constantly on the clock. Even on her days off, she’s never really, truly done working. You suppose it's just a part of the job, which she does very well at.
A light thud outside the door dragged you from your thoughts. Excitedly you watched in anticipation. Nothing could beat the way you felt when you where with her.
“Hello my love.” Rio muttered whilst taking off her topcoat and hanging it on the ornate coat rack beside the door. “How was your day?” she asked after getting settled on the couch beside you.
“Terribly Slow. I missed you very, very much,” you exaggerate bashfully. A slow, rare smile lifted the corners of Rio’s lips at your confession. She reached forward and enclosed your hands with hers. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”
This was your favorite side of Rio. The soft, neutering, caring side that no one else had the fortuity of seeing. Every day she comes home from work and treats you the very same, regardless of whatever day she may have had. All mine, you thought to yourself happily.
“How was work?” You questioned, tilting your head, genuinely curious of how it went. She doesn’t seem to be in a foul mood, but then again, sometimes it’s hard to tell with Rio.
Momentarily, she visibly tensed at the question. “We got a lead on the Dawson case.” she answered, flicking her eyes between you and the black rug on the floor behind you.
You sigh in annoyance and gaze at Rio knowingly. She's holding back. A distilled silence settles between the two of you, neither one of you willing to make an effort to break it.
Slowly, you nod your head, deciding not to pry any further. Even if you wanted to, some things were left better unsaid, and if Rio wanted to talk about them, she would. As an agent there’s certain precautions she must take in order to efficiently do her job, and to protect you. You understood that, even if it hurt your feelings sometimes; though you tried not to take it personally.
Suddenly your eyes drop to your hands intertwined with Rios. Softly, you begin to caress the back of her hand, drawing soothing shapes mindlessly. Her smooth skin was soft and grounding; exactly what you needed at the moment.
Lightly, Rio squeezes your hand and hums in acknowledgement. Even if she doesn’t say out loud, she appreciates your gesture. She can’t help but find comfort in your warmth.
While maintaining your ministrations, you gently lay your head on Rio’s right shoulder. She tilts her head slightly while she lets you adjust to the new position. Rio then places a soft kiss on your forehead before she rests against your side. She wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you in closer, if that’s even possible.
Rio closes her eyes as she lets the comforting smell of you consume her senses. A deep, content sigh erupted from her chest. To Rio, every bad day felt worth it if it meant she could come home and hold you like this.
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A/n: My apologies for the short chapter, more is to come!
#rio vidal#rio agatha all along#fluff#agatha all along fanfic#I love Rio so much it’s not even funny. I actually need her so bad#agatha all along#rio vidal x you#aaa#rio vidal x reader#no angst this time
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you're ellie's achilles heel ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆⌇just went to a planetarium & guys i forgot how much i LOVE greek myths!
life and living are two entirely opposing concepts. life, to ellie, would be akin to a cloudy sky hued with ceaseless shadows of predetermined fate and ineradicable fortuities. living, however, would be the prior with the addition of you — a parting in the clouds, a malleable serendipity to act as a reminder of all things gaiety.
vivacity incarnate, you were. a calm in the storm of loss. a beastly thing, that grief, rearing a head of torment and incessancy. like a dog to its owner; like a shadow to its caster; like a deeply rooted consequence following someone deserving of their karma. whatever metaphor works best, they each elucidate propitiously. owing to such, the grief that trailed her impressed by joel was unabating. analogous to that of a deity, you'd come upon her like an answered prayer. a kind soul of gentility, a laugh in the darkness.
bare skin on hers, the intimacy of your love healed ellie in ways she'd never priorly have dared wished to be. a kiss on the nape, a hand in hers, a gaze of blown pupils.
to be around you is to be around the sun itself. to even imagine losing such a blessing is a harrowing thought of atrocity. from this seed of love and fear to lose grew a sapling of vigilance, which grew to a tree of protection, which grew to a sequoia of possessiveness. it was, in the beginning, benign. until it wasn't. until she treated you like a glass vase of fragility. never would one wish for that, especially in an apocalyptic milieu.
in a world of plague that teemed of infection, injury is quotidian. more often than not would it be fatal. it's a simple fact of such a sphere, one accepted by all living inhabitants. all but one. all but ellie. to see you with so much as a scratch would wreak havoc from the woman. her world would shatter, the ground falling from under her feet. toxicity, it was. you knew it, as did she. but to address or to permute the blight would be futile, fuel to a bonfire.
achilles was she; man of perfection, strength to be embodied in soul. not a flaw in sight upon such personage. naught but one. as his heel was to achilles — the singular deficiency to his strength — you were to ellie. a blemish, a fault, a foible. an imperfection. she hadn't the best upbringing, admittedly, but one's past is as inevitable as the stars are to the sky. in each universe, ellie loses joel, and in each universe, it thus ruins her entire being. all but one. the one where she finds you, clings to you, and deteriorates in crypticy rather than overtly.
achilles' heel is the death to him, the extinguishment to a blazing flame of life. to imagine being the douse of ellie's fire is horrifying. and for that, you leave. for that, you disappear without a word of explanation. because she deserves that. to go through such pain as losing someone is an unavoidable fate predetermined by the trojan prince, paris. by the river styx embodied within you.
to leave her is a blessing in itself, though she may not see it.
as said by achilles himself, "fate is the same for the man who holds back, the same if he fights hard." in this, ellie's kismet will have been withheld in spite of everything. had she not met you, she'd overcome grief just the same. though, since she did, the act caused naught but added time to the defeat of quietus. she'd, in spite of circumstance, always end the same — alone. to abandon one's dog, one must be solus with it as to avoid distraction; to run from one's shadow, one must be in absolute solitude as to circumvent the possibility of other penumbras intervening; to vanquish one's karma, one must face it in a duel, others absence mandatory. in ellie's particular case, she must find out how to vanquish the loss of joel on her own. without you. without dina. without any other people she's bound to lean on out of instinctual dependancy.
grief is naught but the price of love. to find a home in another is to solidify the possibility of losing them, is to to fossilize anguish in stone, star, or statue.
⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 perm taglist. @luvsturniolo. @kasqnxx. @xlovla. @ilovewomenfr. @zzombiegirl. @elliessweetheart. @shawangel. @defnoteleonor. @fatbootymuncher. @autisticintr0vert.
#vxsellie !#ellie the last of us#ellie tlou#ellie williams#ellie willams x reader#ellie x fem reader#ellie x you#ellie williams x female reader#ellie x reader#lesbian#sapphic#drabble#blurb#poetic#poetry#greek mythology#greek gods#greek posts#greek history#greek art#greek tumblr#achilles#iliad#achilles heel#prose#heavy use of metaphors
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๋࣭ ⭑ How Deadpool would react to normie!reader getting hurt ๋࣭ ⭑
Pairing: Wade Wilson x Reader
Wc: 814
Warnings: Mentions of canon typical violence and injuries.
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It all happened so quickly. It would have been easy to miss among all the rubble, the screaming, and the blood. The truth was that she was not even supposed to be there. It was just a cruel fortuity.
Deadpool isn’t one to squirm at violence. He finds himself enjoying it in most cases. Even when it was directed to him. All the experiences he had gone through have made sure to desensitize him from savagery. But not when it came to her. Hell, even if it sounded irrational, he still swore to this day that his heart really did stop for a moment when he realized you were hurt.
His first reaction was to run straight into your arms. An unpleasant feeling hit him like a wave. It felt like drowning from the inside out. But he was sure of one thing. This was no place to lose his temper. The priority is to seem reliable and strong so you don’t freak out. After all, it was Wade’s fault that you were in this situation on the first place. He needs to make right by you and make you feel safe and protected. Wade held you, sweetly swept the hair out of your face and began to evaluate the injuries. He was almost certain that it wasn’t anything atrociously bad. You would recover. So the man allowed himself a small moment of relief.
But it was different for him. As much as he felt pain, he suddenly realized that he probably didn’t understand how a civilian would react to this situation. At the end of the day, she was still a normal woman. She had never been in a fight before. Much less lacerated and being beaten up like this. She lived in the nice part of the neighborhood and always said hello to the neighbors.
In an almost self soothing manner, Pool quickly begins to blurt out a million of obnoxious jokes. He hoped they wouldn’t just calm him down, but distract you from the immense pain and fear you must be feeling right this second. You made an effort to answer playfully to his banter. You knew he was just trying to smother you with sweet, witty nothings.
Despite the circumstances, you tried your best to remain calm. You knew Wade would blame himself. And you did not want to make him feel worse by losing control and showing how much pain you were feeling. But you were terrified, your head was spinning, and you felt violently disgusted by the open wound that adorned your skin. It was like anything else you’d seen before.
The good intentions you held were thrown out of the window by the puke that came out of your mouth at the sight of your wound. You finally entered in shock. Adrenaline couldn’t last forever.
“Oh! I’m sorry. Oh God, Pool. I don’t want to see it. Please. I’m sorry. Do whatever but fix it quickly. Just don’t let me see it again”.
“Fuck. Honey, what the fuck did you have for breakfast? You are going to make me puke too. All over your wound. It will get infected, you know?”
The injury was worse than he originally thought. So Deadpool insisted you should stay with him and Al while you recovered completely. The jokes continued. And Wade would exaggerate and act as if he’s an underpaid nurse forced to attend to some nagging old lady.
The truth he was trying so hard to conceal was rather simple: The day he saw you injured he almost died of terror and guilt. And he would definitely die for real if it happened again. You’d follow along with this little routine you’ve had created for yourselves. You’d state that ‘It wasn’t even that bad’ and tried so hard to mask how grateful you were for his protection and care. You truly felt secure with him. Even with a hole in your stomach, all it mattered to you was that Wade was by your side.
At the end of the day, no matter how much he dismissed it, how hard Pool would try to joke and deflect from it, you knew he really did care about you. You knew it by the softness of his touch when he changed the bandages. The fact that he always remembered to give you the medicine on time. By the third day of your stay with him and Al, he had memorized how you liked your coffee, your tea, and what you preferred to have for breakfast.
You were certain he cared about you in the same way you did about him. You knew by the way he quietly sat beside your bed all night while he thought you were fast asleep, just to check up on you until he was able to convince himself that you were okay and that you weren’t going anywhere.
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Notes: Ok this is my first fic ever and it’s 2am! Hope you liked it. Please dissect it and give me criticism so I can be better at this! (Be nice tho). I’ve been so obsessed with him lately that after years of being a passive reader I decided to write something of my own <3
xxo - sidey
#wade wilson#deadpool#deadpool x reader#deadpool x y/n#deadpool x you#wade wilson x reader#wade wilson x you#sfw interaction only#romance#xmen imagine#marvel fanfiction#marvel imagine
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houndtooth [2]
[masterlist]
Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words
If I cannot be loved, I must be feared.
Simon Riley doesn’t consider himself a violent man.
Practical, perhaps. Purposeful.
The life he has lived has invariably demanded a brutality from him; a sanguinary ruthlessness, one that he would never foolishly deny he has the capacity for. He had told himself, in his bitter youth, that his barbaric appetite for carnage and control was not innate. Not a sticky black disease webbed in his genetic code, inherited from his cunt of a father, or his cunt of a father before him.
No, instead, his savagery is an incidental asset. An arbitrary talent. Of course, he only uses it when it’s urgently called for, only when no other option presents itself to him.
It was only by chance that in his adolescence he stumbled into the underworld of blood sport and fight clubs, only a fluke he discovered his gift once he started pocketing mounds of cash from countless victories in splattered basements. And it's only happenstance that he found himself a career that necessitates his proficiency, that relentlessly rewards him for it – he can’t help what he's good at, after all.
So, he assures himself - not violent.
Not the kind of violent his father was, anyway. Violent in the sense of haphazard bloodshed, the kind of violence with flagrant collateral. No, Ghost has lines he won’t cross. People he won’t hurt. His fists, his blades, his bullets aren’t hurled indiscriminately; he is scrupulous in his sadism. Not a rabid cur, he doesn’t growl with pointed canines at anybody who intersects his path – he’s well trained. Meticulous. Keeps himself muzzled, tethered on a short leash.
Still, he can’t help froth at the jaws when he’s given the opportunity to play his hand, to boast his brutality. Can’t help but relish in the savage fortuities that his profession provides him, permission to lay waste to the men his mission briefs instruct him to.
Only preys on the evil, he says. Only maims the kind who deserve it.
You, standing tremulously in the open door to the bathroom, you’ll be his prey tonight.
You, as informed by his commanding officers, as described to him by his intel, will deserve it.
You, the very kind of degenerate oligarch filth he scorns so deeply, utterly undeserving of the magnitude of wealth and power you have unjustly acquired without merit - will need it.
Even if you haven’t had an acting hand in in your husband’s machine of depravity, at the very least, you’re a repugnant, iniquitous whore; happy to receive and spend mountains of blood-dripping money for a spread of your honeyed legs, apathetic to its murderous origins, uncaring who had to die to buy you that fucking negligée.
That sliver of blush pink, so sheer, so short - you might as well not be wearing it at all. A cotton-candy veil, translucent enough to allow the yellow glow emerging from behind you to carve out the shape of your silhouette; the image of a renaissance muse with the contour of your waist, the swell of your hips. The chantilly hem barely grazes the highest point of your thighs, not quite covering the fragile lace of the knickers that conceal your pernicious cunt from him.
It’s almost a sick joke.
As if you’ve been planted there as some test of his fortitude, a trial of his moral compunctions. That voluptuary sway you have on his restraint, just by standing there, with your fingers hesitantly clutching a glossy Beretta, keeping obediently it pointed to the floor; it riles him. Repulses him. Infuriates him.
The pistol makes a dull thud as it tumbles to the dense carpet, your claw still shaky as you hesitantly part your fingers to release it.
“Умная девочка,” he growls, as he flips his night-vision goggles off his eyes, clasping them to his helmet with a click. “Clever girl.”
He makes sure you understand him when he patronises you, putting his near fluency in your language to some use – all the while, he wants you to know where he has come from. To know that he’s not another competitor nor accomplice of your machiavellian prick of a husband. That he’s a foreign arm of justice. Your retribution. Your punishment.
But he’s taken aback, when your syrupy voice glides from your nervous lips, in a language he didn’t expect you to speak.
“What do you want.”
He stalks towards you, slowly, maliciously, lowering his gun and straightening his hulking back to loom even further above and over you. You’ve seen his skull, now, the painted mask that wilfully camouflages his humanity. He can tell, relishing in the widening of your pretty eyes at the sight of it. Your reaper. Your fate.
His objective is to make you cower. To make you question his intentions. To intimidate. To threaten.
Should be easy.
With a vindictive boot he kicks your Beretta, sending it skidding noisily across the marble floor of your ensuite.
“Not a bad accent,” he grumbles at you, mocking, carnivorous eyes swilling the sight of you as he closes in. Exerts every effort to avert his sights from wandering, sinking, from your skittish countenance to the pillows of your oligarch tits, cupped behind their restraining triangles of sheer pink lace.
A disturbed crease furrows in your brow, you stumble onto your back foot as he menaces over you; you’re poised to bolt, light on your little bare feet – but he readies himself for the chase.
“Are you here for Victor?”
Your velvet tone is more austere than he would have anticipated, a cadence of hoarse impatience belying the endearing panic engraved in your features. Catlike eyes flit between his, as though mining into the windows of his mask, puncturing his irises and burrowing within. Maybe you hope to find something in there, in those pinprick black openings, now that they’ve dilated in light of your prying.
He answers with a single shake of his head, a sharp and cocksure suck of his teeth.
“Comrade’s got him already,” he gloats, deeply coarse voice resonating from his throat, an arrogant grin audible in his words while concealed by the thick knit of his balaclava.
He lets you sit with that news, expecting a tearful exhibition of some histrionic spousal grief, at the very least. But, no, you remain steadfast in your quiet courage. Unnervingly indifferent to the possibility that your husband had been coldly assassinated, a mere few feet from where you had been preening yourself in the ensuite mirror.
Fitting, he thinks, that an avaricious, gold-digging slut like you is entirely unfazed by the sudden and savage death of your malefactor husband. You’re probably glad of it; if Ghost weren’t here to terrorise you, maybe you’d be beaming with glee, knowing his exorbitant wealth would trickle down into your manicured little fingers.
But your husband isn’t dead yet, perhaps to your dismay – instead he has been wrapped up with duct tape, suffocatingly tight, and carted off by the Sergeant with a sack over his head. Probably on their way to exfil. Efficient, that Scottish sergeant. Focused.
Unlike Ghost. He likes to play with his food.
He justifies it, though, knowing a bit of terror will loosen up your lips for later. After all, they have questions for you. Demands of you. And there’s nothing like a squealing, pleading, sobbing wife to pry open the shut jaws of an obstinate prisoner – that is, after other, uglier methods fail to extract the intel he desires. He quietly hopes that it comes to that.
So he prods, head stooping down to callously address you.
“I’m here for you.”
Your cautious yet analytical glare jumps down the length of him, before you surprise him, again – tempting your fate with a temerarious retort.
“I’d sooner let you shoot me. Чертовски уродливый укол.” Fucking ugly prick.
He cocks his brow, sniffing irately as he adjusts his low ready grip on his gun; he raises it just slightly, a malignant push of its vertical barrel into your soft belly. Reminding you of its presence, its size; the length of your entire torso, from mound to forehead. Reiterating its willingness to shred your ripe flesh, your cowed bones with its lead rounds.
“Tempting.” He snarls, as gravelly as cruel.
There’s the tiniest movement in your legs, a minuscule shift in your muscles, your agitated eyes dart past him just briefly – Ghost is seasoned in the hunt. The unconscious change in your breathing pricks his ears, from heavy and quivering to shallow and pointed; a small nibble on the meat inside your lip, a fluttering of your eyelashes as you scan for an escape route. His perception is honed and inhuman, predatory vigilance akin to a stalking wolf, he can smell your next move, it oozes from you like sweat.
So when your weight shifts onto your front foot, prepared to bolt, he lets you.
It’ll tire you out, a healthy chase. It’ll terrify you, and exhilarate him.
He watches insouciantly as you dart to his left, almost condescending in his apathy, as he makes no effort to snag you, no attempt to ensnare your body and trap you with a hook of his heaving arm.
No, that would be too easy. You dash past him, elbowing him in the side of his shielded ribs as you flee.
He listens with perked ears to the sound of your bare feet pattering against the carpet, the silent whisper of your negligée brushing against the doorframe of the suite.
You’ll figure out eventually that there is nowhere for you to run. That there is nobody left to save you. Your options are extremely slim – he made very certain of that. Escape your fortress and brave the Russian midwinter, and endure the agony of your bare flesh freezing black in your pitiful excuse of a nightdress. Or, face him. Which, he concedes, in your eyes may well be a more horrific fate.
He has knowingly been keeping his intentions ambiguous. And a woman that looks like you, in a piece of fucking fabric like that, must be excruciatingly familiar with the kind of intentions most men in this position would have.
No, Ghost isn’t that barbaric, temptation notwithstanding.
He just wants you to believe that he is.
So with heavy feet, he stalks you.
Taking measured steps, he follows the trail of your sweet perfume, your vanity betraying you once again as it lingers in the air behind you, leaving a conspicuous path of jasmine and silk down the extravagant hallway.
His boots tread over the Persian runner that spans the length of the hall. Velvet. Ostentatious.
How much did that cost you?
Disdainful glares observe the hideously gaudy and indubitably priceless paintings that hang on the walls, framed by ornamental moulding, taller than him. Florid. Tasteless.
How much did you spend on those?
How many roubles did you spend on all this garish fucking décor? How many lives did all of it cost?
Can you see the blood on that avant-garde sculpture when you look at it?
Do you see the redness of that blood emulsified in the oil paint of those hideous paintings? Does it stain the wall behind them?
Do you see the coagulated mess when you remove them, to replace them with newer ones?
His jaw clenches involuntarily with the disgust that swallows him. Sucking cold air vexedly through his nose, he slings his rifle over his back, freeing his hands for the catch.
His blood, viscous and dark, thumps in his temples, prickling cold under his skin; like Pavlov’s dog, he salivates at the quiet noises that barely echo from elsewhere in the mansion, the sound of you scuttling away from him. He hears your frightened panting through the walls, soft little squeaks like a hunted mouse.
“Any luck, L.T.?”
The gruff Scottish voice emerges through the crackling speaker of his radio, dampening the thuds of his bestial heart, dispelling the blood red that encroaches his vision. If only slightly.
His thumb goes to press the talk button. He contemplates how honest he will be.
“Having some trouble.”
He makes no effort to speak quietly. He wants you to hear him advance on you. He wants you to wonder hopelessly which corner he might turn, through which door he might check.
“Don't do anything I’ll have to defend you for.”
Ghost grumbles deeply as he exhales. Soap is keenly aware that he is purposefully taking his time with you. You could only ever cause him trouble if he allowed you to, after all.
“D’you think I’m that much of a brute?” Ghost retorts, growl doused in facetiousness.
“Only when you want to be, sir.”
He jerks his head at the echo of a quiet thud, the chime of crystal glasses vibrating on impact.
Dining room.
He’s silent for too long, though. Soap follows up.
“We’re waiting for you, mate. It’s fuckin’ cold. Get a move on, will you?”
“Won’t be long, Sergeant.”
“You'll have plenty o’ time with her when we’ve got ‘er in captivity, eh?”
He hears a stifled squeal escape you, through a single wall. He’s found you. No need to answer Soap – the boy can wait.
With smug nonchalance he strolls the corner, in no rush, he steps through the flamboyant archway into your dining room, vulturous eyes squinting to scan for you in the shadows.
Banquet hall might be a more apt label for the sheer magnitude and glitz of the room, soaring ceilings bordered with ornate floral plaster, moonlight glowing through the towering windows reflecting in diamonds off the polished parquet floor. He imagines you must have hosted and overfed many of Zakhaev’s snivelling accomplices at that very teak dining table, that could easily seat sixteen.
He wonders what their Soviet maws might have snarled at you through their greedy teeth as you bent over that table to top up their chalices. He wonders which cut of your meat they would have liked. He wonders if your husband would have served you up for them if they asked. He wonders if they ever dared to.
Your shadow reveals your whereabouts, dead still and peeking across the floorboards through a second archway, in the wall to the right.
Not very good at hiding, are you?
He sees you flinch at the deep sound of his boot on the wooden floor, closing in on you once again. His ready hands clench into reactionary fists at the sight of you standing motionless in the grey moonlight, arms tight by your side, frozen solid like you might have already ventured out into the subzero night.
Only as he approaches you, does he see what you’re stuck on.
One of your mercenaries.
Ghost thought he had executed him, with a stealthy blade to the throat, a crude slash from jugular to jugular. A ragged incision into his windpipe to ensure his silence as his life drained out of the gaping wound.
But the prick is still alive, by the sounds of it, the unpleasant music of his wet choking; the squelching and popping of him sucking air through the hole in his throat, impeded by the flow of fizzing blood.
It seems to have alarmed you, the sight of the slaughter, sending you into trembling shock as you fail to break your sight away from the twitching corpse.
“Y-you–”
He’s uncertain if you’re addressing him, as you stutter so winsomely, that brave little show you put on for him earlier now crumbling delightfully at the recognition of your fate.
“You’re – why did you…” you stammer, before drawing in a steadying breath. “You’re a fucking animal.”
Ghost releases an ireful sigh as he lurks to stand behind you, tugging a pair of cable-tie cuffs from one of the many pockets on his thoroughly outfitted tactical vest.
With a careful spin on your heel, a floaty dance of your negligée, you face him. Glowering up at him through wet lashes, lumps of mascara stick to your cheeks like tar, flushed from your eyes by a spate of tears.
Now you’re emotional.
That convulsing, blood-drenched cadaver is real enough for you, is it?
It must be easier to compartmentalise, easier to dismiss like flicking spilt salt over your shoulder, when the bloodshed you’re responsible for is mourned miles and miles from you.
No, that carnage can never reach you, can it? Not while you’re in your fucking fortress, lazing on a velveteen chaise lounge, painting your toenails with that glossy coat of cherry red as if it were the very blood your regime spilt.
Well, here it is. The kind of brutality you’ve been sheltered from, safeguarded against, blissfully ignorant of.
You pampered bitch.
He can’t help but be disappointed you’ve given up, you’ve let him gain on you. His muscles, his bones, his teeth, were ready for a hunt, aching for the catch. His carnivorous body had primed him for a breakneck pursuit through the halls of your mansion, and he now felt viciously unsated.
He wanted to hear you shrieking, pleading to be spared, squeaking like a bitten rabbit when he finally caught you in his jaws. He wanted to be the one to stifle your squeals with his gloved hands, gargantuan weight crushing the air from your weak lungs, thwarting your attempts to flee. He wanted to relish in your squirming, fighting, kicking underneath him, and he wanted to watch the flickering light of resistance in your darting eyes be snuffed out by the futility of your escape.
Yet even as you evidently surrender, still quaking with frigid trepidation, that glimmer still glows. A stubborn little flame.
“Are they all dead?” You murmur, defeat weeping through the monotony of your dull voice, hoarse from exertion.
Ghost grants you a solitary nod, a flick of his head. “They are.”
He observes as you sip in a slow, quivering breath, not parting your wary lour from the window of his mask – still reading, still digging, still burrowing.
“Are you taking me somewhere?” You cautiously probe, your sweetly soft tone a likely effort to temper the ferocity of your hunter. “Or are you just here to hurt me?”
A gritty huff of laughter jumps from his chest, muffled by the densely knitted mask that sits over his nose.
With a languid hitherto gesture of his fingers, his head bowed from his towering shoulders, he answers you.
“Both.”
You oblige him, you clever girl. Lifting your timid hands and holding your wrists together for him, you make it easy for him to take you.
He slips the loops of stiff black plastic over each of your pristine hands, tugging the tails though the head and tightly ensnaring your wrists. His dark eyes bounce to your twisting face as you wince, the shrill zip of the teeth jerking through the pawls rings piercingly in the silence of the room – music to him, torment to you.
“Will you make it quick?”
He finds himself dissatisfied by your resignation, your stoic defeat; as though you were so disillusioned, so expectant that this fate awaited you, that you had long girded yourself for it. It deflates him, your capitulation, your impassivity – leaves him high and dry.
From a pocket on his utilitarian trousers he unveils a fabric sack; thick black cotton with a drawstring closure.
“No.” He responds dully, as he tugs the bag over your head, finally veiling your probing eyes. With gloved hands he holds you by the crux of your shoulder, thumb gripping tightly over the base of your throat. He tightens the drawstring of the sack under your jaw, constricting it around your neck. Just snug enough to be uncomfortable, to impede your swallowing, to dampen your breathing.
“Fucking pig.” You seethe through the fabric.
Grasp of you not wavering, he yanks you toward him, you stumble over your bare feet as he cranes his head so it hangs beside yours, mouth by your ear.
“Don’t make me gag you.”
He faintly makes out the sound of you scoffing in silent contempt. “You won’t.”
Standing upright, he tilts his head in bemusement. “Won’t I?”
“You want a challenge, don’t you? That’s why you let me run, isn’t it?”
He’s flummoxed for the moment, speechless, only allowing an inaudible grunt of dispute to escape him.
“Like a little fight, do you? You sick fuck?”
He’s careful in his reaction. Prudent. Controlled. Refuses to let you believe that you’ve read him like a book.
No, instead, he toys with your conjecture.
Sinister, guttural, he growls,
“Maybe I do.”
#call of duty fanfic#cod fanfic#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#cod smut#cod mw2#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x female reader#ghost cod#bitterfruit fics#bitten-fruit
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pack x reader when she told them about girls math 👀👀
🥑anon
ooo okay 💜 hope you enjoy :)
444 + 222 - pack x reader
Two arms were stretched out as the hold was intertwined with a hand of each of you and Sam’s. His legs followed yours as you walked the pavement.
Time ticked as your hand reach on your jacket, the pocket was zipped up still from when you found and put it on.
Your hand idly unzip and stick your hand right on in, just to find something papery. Your fingers smooth over as you pull it out, thinking it could’ve been trash. Pulling it out, money that you forgot that you had in there was staring back at you between your fingers.
Gasping happily, you get Sam’s attention as he shares happiness for your such fortuity.
Walking in the direction of the coffee shop that you have always been meant to go, Sam follows close behind.
Holding the iced liquid in the plastic cup with your hands, Sam could do nothing but shake his head.
"So let me get this straight." he starts as you sip small sips, patiently waiting for him as he processes what you told him.
"Cash is free money because it doesn’t come out of your account?”
“Right.” you answer.
“And it’s because of…‘girl math’.. right?”
“Right.
He then laughs to himself as he caught on.
“I don’t think twelve dollars for an iced coffee is exactly free.”
“But I still have the same amount of money in my bank account. I didn’t have to touch a dime.” you say as you encourage him to understand.
Even though he understood what you meant, he had a kick out of learning the ways of girl math, as he liked to understand the mechanics behind it. After all, you were just a girl.
Paul's ears heard your stomach growling as the engine of the car growled, wheeling both passengers.
Admitting that he's hungry as well, you both pull to a stop.
Retrieving the food that you asked for, you ripped the strips of chicken as Paul watched carefully as he chewed his own food.
“Should I ask what you are doing?” he asked.
“Instead of ten pieces, ripping them in half gives me twenty.” you state and you shuffle them a bit to show off the point at hand.
“So, just bite them.” Paul says but you explain to him how it’s the same.
“According to what?” he asks.
“Girl math.” you tell him.
Plucking one of the pieces up, he places it in his mouth and chews.
You gawk at him a bit as you wave his hand off, “You have your own.”
“Girl math gave you twenty pieces. You can share.” he teases.
The receipt was in Jacob’s fingers as he stared down at the thin white slip. He shakes his head in disappointment.
The hang of the newly bought sweater was in your procession as you were waiting for him to tell you what he called you for. You were dying to try the sweater on to see how it would look as you build an outfit with it.
“I thought you said you were going to work on saving money?” Jacob asked, he was excited the moment when you told him this.
You roll your eyes playfully as you say, “What do you mean, I did save money.”
“How? I cannot wait to hear what you have to say.” Jacob says after asking for clear understanding as he glanced at the receipt and back to you.
At the end of the reason how you saved money by buying something on sale, he still has a look of confusion.
“You sure there’s no error in girl math?” he asks.
You scoff a bit as you then tell him, “Wait until I tell you that returning an item is another way of making money.”
He was impressed a bit. Words couldn’t be formed from him when you really were making your money right back. It wasn’t like the profit wasn’t coming back to you. He understood such logic.
Embry didn’t understand why you agreed to another side gig.
“This means I will see you less.” he says somberly.
“No it won’t. It’s just girl math.”
His ears were in tuned by your lips telling him how if you work another side job, you would be able to give yourself everything that you want.
He wasn’t too sure how to feel about it.
“Do you think your girl math will allow me to still be around you?” he asks.
“Of course. It’s always accurate.” you reassure him. If you were confident in it, he was confident in it.
Your phone buzzes as you press the green button to answer Jared’s call.
“Hey are you okay?” he asks on the other line.
“Yes, I’m okay.” you told him.
“Where are you? It’s kinda noisy in the background.”
“At the mall.”
“The mall? I thought that you said that you were taking a walk?”
“I am taking a walk.” you say in confusion.
“Like you told me you were going to the gym.”
“Yeah, I figured I take my walk at the mall.” you say with a quirk as he chuckles.
“Where’d you get that idea from?” he asks.
“It’s not an idea. It’s a lifestyle. It’s girl math.” you say as you pass a shop that had the strong scent of perfume wafting under your nose.
Jared agrees that the treadmill is too stagnant.
“And it’s cold inside of the mall.” he comments.
“See, you get it.” you smile into the phone.
Floating down the steps, Quil was shocked when he took in your appearance.
“You’re ready already?” he asks.
Today, you didn’t need to take long. You were able to get ready in 20 minutes, the immaculate managing of your time. Not having to change your routine, the day was off to a good start.
“Yeah.” you ask him. You’re capable of making him say,
“How is that possible?” he asks as he grabs the car keys off of the hook.
“Girl math is just being able to get ready in 20 minutes but also in 3 hours depending on how much time I have. I have the exact same routine.” you explain to him as you both walk down the driveway.
Silence soared as both feet walk along the pavement to get to the vehicle.
“What?” Quil asks as he tried his best to keep a mind on how to understand.
“It’s not that complicated.” you huff as he opens the car door for you.
“I don’t think Einstein would be able to solve it.” he tells you.
“He’s not a girl.” you smirk and say.
“Okay, you got me there.” Quil says as he clicks in his seatbelt.
Seth thought it was smart. Not much explaining was needed. It reminded him the unexplainable things that Leah did. Catching onto the system was like counting by 2’s.
“So, that’s what girls call it.” Seth says in his head, feeling like he is the founder of newfound discovery.
“It’s free. ” you say to Seth as your mother was buying a nicely made coat.
At first he was a bit confused, “How is it free? Your mom’s paying for it right?”
“She’s paying for it. She’s going to end up letting me borrow it, so basically she bought it for me and her.” you say happily.
“Ohhh. That is true.” Seth says as he nods and you both come to great understanding.
#sam uley#paul lahote#jacob black#embry call#jared cameron#quil ateara#seth clearwater#wolf pack#twilight wolfpack#twilight wolves#y/n#x reader#reader imagine#y/n imagines#quileute#la push#x y/n#twilight saga#twilight#girl math#blurb
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NCT FIC REC : NA JAEMIN
back to the nct fic rec
nct fic rec : na jaemin part.2
favs
new town, new me (fav, smut, weewolf!au, witch!au)
new habits (fav, smut, highschool!au)
ghosting you (fav, smut, fluff, realestate!au, entrepreneur!au)
by the window (fav, smut)
no smut
to love (fluff, suggestive)
fake dating! (fluff, bff!jaemin, fake dating!au)
day8: seduction (fluff)
classics (smut)
can you stay up all nigh? (smut)
one more rep (smut, perv!au)
be there for you (smut, doctor!au)
take a bite (smut, buffy!jaemin)
can you stay up all night? (Smut)
thin walls (smut, roommates!au)
go there with you (smut, roommates!au)
his sundress (smut)
strawberry lemonade (smut)
high sex drive (smut)
sweet spot (smut, masseur!jaemin)
love on the floor (fluff, smutish, office!au)
barbie girl (smut)
kitty girl (smut)
catgirl princess part.2 (smut, catgirl)
i love to get 2 on (smut, biker!au, streetracer!au)
biker jaemin (smut, biker!au)
truth or dare (smut)
start of something new (smut)
princess treatment (fluff, smut)
smile (you're on camera) (smut)
excessive lube (smut)
high sex drive (smut)
cockwarming (smut)
clueless (smut, roommate!au))
pillow princess (smut)
daddy (smut)
peach (smut)
hey angel (smut)
bad religion (smut)
mean obsessed jaemin (smut)
big big jaemin (smut)
catgirl (smut, catgirl!au)
succession (smut, ceo!au?, succesion!au)
jaemin loves messy pussy (smut)
jaemin's chain (smut)
and they were roommates (finished serie, smut, college!au)
firsts steps (smut)
trauma (smut, angst, mafia!au)
alternate universe (magics, gods, royalty, etc...)
when the stars align (fluff, guard!au, princess!au)
jaemin and the yule ball (smut, hogwarts!au)
chill kill (smut, fluff, angst, hogwarts!au)
hogwarts!jaemin (fluff, hogwarts!au)
a dreams come true (fluff, cupid!jaemin)
dedication (fluff, crack, hogwarts!au)
what do you desire? (fluff, hogwarts!au)
cuddle with me (fluff, hogwarts!au)
quest for romance (fluff, demigod!au, greek mythology!au)
love and war (fluff, demigod!au, mythology!au)
captain sparkle fingers revives me from the dead (fluff, angstish, demigod!au, mythology!au)
of love and lust (fluff, demigod!au, mythology!au)
worship (smut, mortal!jaemin, goddess!reader)
dumb bunny, sly fox (smut, hybrid!au)
go! (smut, abo!au)
tutor alpha (smut, abo!au)
dreaming (go continuation, smut abo!au)
angel baby (smut, fluff, abo!au)
pretty girl (smut, fluff, abo!au)
with another member
sextape (x jeno and haechan?) (smut)
the sequel x jeno (smut, phonesex!au, ghostface!au)
sos x jeno (smut, abo!au)
i'm a mouse duh! x jeno (smut)
they're roommates x jeno (smut)
fortuity : a chance encounter part.1 part.2 (fluff, royal!au, prince!au)
just so you know x jeno (smut)
sos x jeno (smut, abo!au)
cookie jar x jeno (smut, stepbrother!au)
Pervert jaemin (smut)
movie and a show x mark (smut)
sharing is caring x mark (smut)
popular guy! jaemin part.1 part.2 part.3 (smut)
can you handle it? x johnny, jaehyun, jeno (smut)
morally gray (and tw)
destruction in my mind (smut, yandere!au, kidnapping!au)
mean coworker! (dubcon, smut, barista!au)
a little help (dubcon, smut, doctor!au)
give into things i (don't) want to (smut, dubcon)
blur (dubcon, smut)
son of the landlord (dubcon, smut)
the walls are thin x jeno (dubcon, smut)
prey ->hunter (DUBCON, smut, horror!au, kidnapping)
sleep therapy (DUBCON, smut, demon!au)
can your hear me? (DUBCON, smut, perv!au, stalker!au)
#nct#jaemin#fluff#smut#fic rec#jaemin smut#jaemin fluff#jaemin angst#jaemin x reader#jaemin fic#jaemin fanfic#nct fic#nct jaemin#jaemin oneshot#jaemin imagine#nct scenario#jaemin scenario#nct dream smut#nct smut#jaemin x you#jaemin x oc#jaemin x yn#jaemin x y/n#nct x reader#nct x yn#nct x y/n#jaemin fic recs#jaemin fic rec#nct x oc#jaemin ff
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