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hoseoksluna · 8 months ago

Text

ROSÉ | jjk

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x wine!oc

genre: smut

word count: 5.7k

summary: on your first dinner date, your boyfriend brings you a small gift—too bad you're too horny to appreciate it.

pinterest board: wine

warnings: a bit of drunkenness, a mention of inner child healing, oc teases jungkook and oc is horny as fuck, dom/sub dynamics, wine!jk, provider jk..., daddy issues, punishment, spanking, food used during intercourse, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), dirty talk, a mention of a sex toy & a mention of a plushie in a sexual context, raw sex, brattiness, jk and oc smoke together

note: OH GOD—IT'S FINALLY HERE. SLFJSLDFJS. A REQUESTED DRABBLE about wine!oc and jungkook. this was so fucking fun to write and i was so hot and bothered from this that i had to take a break............ yeah uhm anyways, I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS. ENJOY READING AND LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK ANONYMOUSLY IN MY INBOX. I NEED YOUR THOUGHTS. PLS AND THANK YOU. ₊˚⊹♡

side note: jk in the first pic made me fucking die. and other things....

The rosy pink nectar has, undeniably, gone to your head.

Your empty wine glass is illuminated by the setting sunlight spilling past your shoulder, reaching its yellow, warm fingers to the tips of your boyfriend’s that rest lazily on the white cloth of the table. You’re woozy, in a lighthearted mood—so much that even the world has lost its heft and all you can sense is the sluggish process of your absorption. You’re engrossed in the way the spring coalesces with the beginning of summer—in the warm evening wind ruffling your curls, tickling your bare shoulders, in the darkening hues of the sky, pinks and violets, in the gray smoke of Jungkook’s cigarette interlacing with the slightly sultry air. You can see it in his eyes, the unfolding of it all. And perhaps you’re tipsy or perhaps you’re just brazenly and foolishly falling in love, because you’re aware that if the man weren’t sitting in front of you, none of these things wouldn’t have caught your attention in such a devastatingly profound way.

He has made you feel so safe. By simply and beautifully laying his feelings bare. To you and for you. Created a haven for you to dwell in, for you to grow in and explore all the dark and light corners of you that have merely seldom seen the face of the sun. How could you not indulge in a little bit of alcohol, when you’re protected in that place of security? Let your girlishness swim a little, refresh herself, enjoy herself?

You’re glowing. You always had been, but your shimmers have gained a new intensity to their twinkles, keeping Jungkook’s liquid stars warm and taken care of inside of you. Their blunt points have carved you into someone else entirely, too. Joyous, cool-headed and absolutely and irrevocably self-assured. Fearless. And his hands have reached deep within and caressed the head of your inner child, healing her and washing her clean, giving her everything she ever lacked. Love, attention, care and validation. Whenever you remember that you never wanted him to get a glimpse of your soul, bile rises in your throat and your stomach hurts.

He saved you. Healed you. Through and through. Gave you his control.

It stirs your never-ending awe that he has managed to do this in a month, and you want to celebrate it. You think now is quite the perfect occasion for it as it’s your first dinner date since you’ve become exclusive. Having spent most of your time at each other’s places fucking, partying and fucking some more, it’s nice to be out, alone with him, that is—and it’s nice as fuck to be out with your boyfriend. The sex has become so different with the label and the rawness of his feelings. And the thing about Jungkook that gets you the most, that strengthens the realm he invented for you, is that once his emotions overflow, the stream of its wine doesn’t stop pouring. The moment he confessed his love for you, ever since then you sense it expressed in everything he does—in the way he greets you in the day, in his tight, burning embrace, in the tenderness with which he holds your hand or kisses it, the relentless, great thought and consideration he puts in the choices he makes for you on the daily. Whether it’s the fatuous things he buys you that mean the world to you, the way he never neglects bunny and incorporates her in everything you do together or… the sex.

Fuck, the sex alone has taken over your life so vividly and drastically that it consumes your brain. There, in that environment, is where the wine of his emotions is the raciest. He’s not ashamed to cry, letting those liquid pearls trickle down your collarbones, quenching the thirst of his liquid stars as he fucks you dumb and enjoys every second of it. He’s not afraid to be loud either. To talk you through your orgasm with even more care and detail than you were accustomed to in the past.

He’s become boundless. And it’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

God, you’d be crazy not to let yourself fall for him—

“I got you dessert,” Jungkook husks, digging his fingers into the pocket of his pants while his other digits draw close to his mouth. He takes a drag of his cigarette, crinkling his eyes so the smoke wouldn’t get into them and you beam at him with a fire that’s more scorching than the sun’s ever been in centuries, heart doing somersaults at the thought of him thinking of you and spending money on you again. And, also, at how hot he looks while he smokes.

Your love language must be gift-giving. You don’t know what else to connect it to, the joy that envelops your entire being whenever he gives you something. It doesn’t even have to be expensive, nor does he have to pay for it at all. Drawings have become your favorite keepsakes—drawings of his Miffy bunny, drawings of flowers, of you. You’ve hidden them away in a box along with everything he’s ever brought you, except the white bunny ring because you wear it daily and one small, particular drawing that you’ve put inside your glittery phone case.

A cutesy marker sketch of him and you. His arm around your shoulders. Bunny sitting on your laps in the middle, as if she were your own child. Cheeks big and bubbly, pink and twinkling. Your curls the way you wear them; his mullet. A perfect depiction of the pair of you. You gaze at it every single day—prefer to now put your phone face down because of it.

You’re tracing it now with the pad of your finger as you wait for him to reveal your mystery gift to you. The bulby heads, the cheeks, Miffy’s ears. Jungkook puts out his cigarette, puffing out the smoke, away from you, and once he’s done, he taps the back of your hand. Turns it over and spreads out your fingers, inserting, at a snail's pace, something round but slender at the same time, smiling adoringly at you.

What a sight to behold. It steals, fleetingly, your attention away from his hand.

Slicked back mullet, twinkles taking laps in his soft eyes, blushed cheekbones and stretched, pouty mouth, shiny with his liquid love. Long neck that you’d like to devour now, the broadness of his shoulders and chest that could come second as a plain, dark beige shirt accentuates his hard work at the gym.

Oh, fuck. Your nipples pebble against your carmine tube top.

Jungkook withdraws his hand and with blurry eyes, you look at the thing he placed in your palm.

Chupa Chups. Strawberry and cream.

Your mouth parts and it’s a concoction of a gasp and a sound of endearment when the realization that he got you a lollipop sinks in. Your heart flips and does a head stand. Lips round into a pout, drunk eyes softening, its twinkles growing in size and light. It’s like he gave you something golden, when in fact it costs a few wons, but to you it’s exactly that. Something so precious.

You give him an air kiss, bouncing in your seat in joy, fingers already destroying the wrapper. “Thank you so…”

Your brows furrow as the wrapper remains intact. You do a bad, bad job of picking at the tape around the slender stick, your long manicured hands absolutely useless—and the cause of your frustration. You puff out an angry gust of breath, trying harder to get to the sweet delight and it’s at that moment that your boyfriend takes it from your hands with a deep chuckle.

“You silly boo, this is how you do it.” Jungkook pinches the wrapper around the stick and he merely, in a few swift motions, twists the ball until it lets go. He scrunches it in his fists and throws it away in the ashtray. Smirks smugly, leans his elbows on the table, draws close to you. You mirror his position, get to him almost nose to nose, and his smirk deepens, tongue darting out to lick across his lips. You do the same, eyeing the round pinkness in his hand, the sexual attraction and its tension soaring high between you.

Without your hands, you could put it in your mouth, mimic the way you do it on his own tip and make him lose his mind a little bit. It’s right here, an inch away and you dip your head towards it, a magnetic pulling drawing you naturally to it. Sense his gaze on you, sense his delight, sense the flashback glimmering across the wholeness of him. But before you could wrap your lips around it, he moves it out of your reach.

“No,” Jungkook murmurs, breath slightly ragged, holds it up in front of your face, watches as you go cross-eyed a little bit. Hums at the sight, quietly enough for only you to hear. “If you want it, ask for it nicely.”

His puffy lips being so close to you, you desire to kiss him—cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink, his oh-so-loved dominance fucking with your drunkenness and your brain, body altogether. You tip your head to the side, flutter your lashes, make your eyes big and smile at him as sweetly as you can.

He coos, validating you, and it is a force that makes you feel safe enough to submit to him like a small animal to its father. Safe enough to want to get under the table and make him feel really, really good, too.

“Can I have the lollipop, please?”

He groans, still quietly, and your panties drench immediately. You widen your eyes at him, feeling your slick, pursing your lips to scold him silently. He just laughs, amused by it all, and the sound of his joy fills you with elation.

One that darkens, when he asks, “Where?”

You lick your lips, taking in the question, struck by it. Letting your mind wander, the places where you want it, except your mouth, is on your nipples and your clit. Nicely sweet and sticky—for him to clean up, for him to enjoy. Your dewiness soaks the material of your panties and your body begins to yearn for any kind of friction. You’re not sure whether you’re able to stick around in your chair, acting as if nothing’s wrong—acting as if you’re not stupendously horny.

“In my mouth.”

Jungkook makes a noise of appreciation and you’re so frustrated by all those sounds he makes that you want to dig your nails in his arms and make him pay for it. Even more so, when he plunges the lollipop into his mouth and his lips pucker around it, inciting the butterflies in your tummy to go absolutely fucking berserk. You place your hand on his bicep, nails ready to attack, but then he pulls out the treat with a pop, angling it at your mouth.

“Open.”

You thought he stole it from you, but he did no such thing. He wetted it for you, like a father for its child. You’re stupefied to the point that you don't even realize that you’re leaving a mark on the linen material of your seat.

You do open your mouth for him, however.

He twists the ball on your tongue, expecting you to close your mouth around the stick, but you don’t. No, you swirl that muscle around the candy, deepening your gaze, smirking. Jungkook stills, clenches his strong jaw. Darkness flicks across his eyes and he narrows them. First warning.

You pretend you don’t see it.

Closing your mouth and encasing your hand around his, you move the lollipop to the side of your cheek, acting as if it were his dick. And when you bob your head once, Jungkook tugs on the stick, wanting to pull it out, but you don’t let him, keeping it caged between your teeth. It only drives you to bob your head again.

“Stop,” he says, voice calm, deep and serious—terribly deadly. Withdraws his hand and leans back, watching you with a predatory gaze, one that makes you even wetter. “Or we’re going home.”

That’s exactly what you want. Instructions clear.

You open your mouth and do a show of swirling your tongue around the ball, only this time you flick the muscle against it. Jungkook grips the table, knuckles white, and you laugh, which you soon realize was a grave mistake.

“You think it’s funny?” he questions you, staring you down with a look that should frighten you, but it merely turns you on. You suck on the lollipop, the dulciness of strawberries suffusing your senses. “I’ll bend you over this fucking table, lift up that slutty little skirt and spank you in front of everyone.”

You pull out the candy with an exaggerated pop. Scowl at him. As though his words didn’t affect you the way that they did—as though you’re not squeezing your thighs together, trying to gain that friction you so desperately need. “Why are you so angry?”

He looks away for a moment, laughing silently. Nods his head at your wine glass. “You finished with your wine, baby?”

It’s this pleasantness that you hear in this voice that spreads goosebumps across your skin. Feigned sugariness—the sunlight right before the clouds come in and thunder strikes; the calm before the storm.

Good thing you’re dressed for the rain and ready to sing in it.

You nod your head and Jungkook clicks his tongue, grabs you by your hand whilst he pulls out his wallet. You accompany him as he walks over to the bar, black card ready between his fingers. Waits to be noticed. Gives you a look over and fixes your skirt, pulling the hem down.

Pays for you. Smiles down at you as he pockets his wallet.

And then, he drags you to his car.

Perhaps it’s the fresh air, perhaps it’s the briskness in his walk and the tight hold around your hand, but all intoxication evaporates from your body, leaving only your stained elation and neediness. You can’t help your smile. Think it must be sewn in at this point. By his own diligent fingers.

A wind blows in, pulling your hair to your front and Jungkook pins you against his car. Tits squished against the passenger side, elbows pressed together. Eyes wide, you check your surroundings and find no one in sight. Only swaying trees, buildings of apartments, lamps illuminating the dark street. You relax right away, trusting Jungkook that he’s on the lookout and knows what he’s doing.

He grinds his hips against your backside and you moan at the feeling of his hard length. With his free hand, he brushes your hair to one side and begins to pepper kisses along the curve of your neck, nuzzling his face in. Hovers his lips above your ear when he says, “You feel how hard you made me with your little show?” You nod, quickly, wanting more of him, wanting him inside of you. Push your hips back; twirl them in slow circles. Jungkook hisses. “I guess you really do want that spanking. Where’s your lollipop?” You show him your hand, where your treat remains uneaten and dry. He takes it from you and you turn your head in time to see him sink it into his mouth, placing it on the side of his mouth like you did. “Get inside the car.”

Jungkook opens the door for you and forces you in, closing it with a harsh thud. As he rounds the vehicle, he makes eye contact with you and your tummy flips in response.

Fuck.

Nothing happens in a millisecond once he’s seated, but then he grabs your cheeks, squishing them in the way he likes, and kisses you hard, lollipop in hand. Moving his mouth against yours, his tongue only briefly greets you before he pulls away. “Naughty fucking girl. You’re lucky that I love you because otherwise…” He doesn’t finish his sentence with words, but with another kiss, breathing against you, grunting when it’s you this time that slips the tongue inside, playing with him the same way you played with the dessert he got you. “Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me. I’m gonna put you in your fucking place, make you remember how to behave in public. You’ve forgotten, haven't you?”

You don’t have time to react, you merely bite your lip so hard that it aches. Jungkook pushes you back and yanks your leg between his, lifting your skirt. Then, he hovers his palm above your ass, the other forearm resting on the top of the seat, lollipop dangling near your head. He hides his smirk behind his effort to flatten his lips.

And when he spanks you, you don’t roll your eyes back and rasp like your body naturally wants you to. No, you hold the eye contact and you take the pain, letting it course through your body, reveling in it. He doesn’t say anything as he keeps going, alternating between slapping your now reddened cheeks and the back of your thigh. Doesn’t even stroke the skin to alleviate the burn. He solely bores his gaze into yours, his cock rock hard against your leg. Another set of words are exchanged, silently, deeply, teaching you your lesson in tandem with the hits, burying it to a great depth inside you.

And then he finishes with a nasty kiss, but his hand resumes causing you pain. You’ve lost count of how many spanks you’ve taken.

It’s like you’ve woken up from a trance. It reverberates throughout your entire body and it’s now that you allow your body to vocally react. You whine, rounding your mouth in a pout, so different from the one on the dinner date. And you remember your manners—perceive how wrong it was to tease him, even though a good half of you still takes delight in it.

“It hurts,” you whisper, nudging your lips against him and he gives you your last spank—the hardest of them all. The infliction makes you flutter your eyes shut and Jungkook brings them back to him by caressing his knuckles down your flushed cheek.

“Good, you remember how to behave now?” he asks, halting his movement, such piercing intensity in his irises that drive you to nod your head. “That’s my good little girl.” Taps the side of your thigh. “Let Daddy make it better now.”

You open your legs for him and Jungkook pushes your soaked panties to the side, revealing your little bedewed seashell. He hums at the sight of her, pops the lollipop back inside his mouth. Collects your arousal by swirling the pads of his middle and ring finger around your hole, eyes flicking from your pussy to your own, groaning when he comes into contact with your swollen clit, rubbing slow circles. You whimper, bucking your hips, needing him to go faster, needing to come.

Jungkook shakes his head, disapproving. “You take what I give you or I’ll stop.” Lifts his hand to express the gravity of his threat and you help, wrapping both hands around his and putting it back on your bundle of nerves. He chuckles at your desperation, giving you the same circles, though now firmer.

Waves the lollipop near your lips. You open your mouth, instinctively, and he plunges it into your mouth for a mere second before he pulls away, growling at the sound that comes out. He does it again, fucking you with it in a way, just to hear that pop and he’s so pleased with it that he sinks those two fingers inside your heat, fully, in one ego. Keeps them there. Teases you. Hovers the lollipop out of your reach and you decide to fuck with him back. Darting out your tongue, you whirl it around the flat side and he swears, moaning, giving to you at last.

He latches his mouth onto your neck, starting the drill of his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

He picks up the speed so rapidly that you scream, squeezing your eyes shut, the pleasure permeating your body so vastly that you quiver all over. Grab a hold of his hair, pulling on it and then—

Then, he withdraws his fingers. Ruins your orgasm.

You pant, trying to catch your breath. “Please, Jungkook, please—”

He nudges his nose against yours. “What, baby?”

“I need to come, please.”

Jungkook tuts, kissing you once. “I thought we could play.” Plunges the lollipop into your mouth to wet it. Shows it to you, just to see you go cross-eyed again. Moans. “Where do you want it, hm?”

Ever the angel that makes your fantasies come to life. You wrap your fingers around his hand, butterflies swarming in your tummy. Lead him towards your still clothed breasts. “Here.” Take him to your drooling pussy. “And here.”

Jungkook makes a sound of approval. Descends his fingers a little lower, to your other hole, circles it. “What about here?”

You giggle, but you shake your head. The idea may be intoxicating, however reality is much different. There’s a risk to putting any sweetened food inside, one you don’t want to deal with.

Jungkook smiles at you, pushes your seat back and slides it in the same direction. Crawls over you and you feel so feminine, so sexy underneath him. Nipples perked under your top, breasts full and spilling. You arch your back towards him and Jungkook drags his thumb from your bottom lip, to your chin, neck, the dip of your collarbones until he reaches the hem of your Tom and he tugs it down so harshly that you can’t contain your very own concoction of a gasp and moan.

Lollipop in mouth, one hand propped by your head, the other squeezes your breast hard, nearing it, fingers pinching your nipple. Makes the flesh as red as your ass. You can tell he likes the view by the way he coos, but then he wipes all your thoughts away, when he sucks hard on the candy and swirls it around your stiffened nub, gaze flicked to yours to watch your reaction.

The pleasure is so vivid, so dizzying—and for him, you let it paint your face in all its colors. Brows scrunched, bedroom eyes, mouth parted, puffing out desperate breaths. Jungkook sucks it again and smears his saliva around your other nipple, taking his time, slapping the ball once against it, making you hiss.

“It feels so good,” you murmur, sinking your fingers into the longer length on the back of his hair, bringing his mouth to yours. You kiss him with a verve that causes him to groan. You swallow that sound, satisfied.

He grins at you. “I bet.”

Dips his head and envelops that sugar-coated nub with his warm lips, sucking it hard. His groan spreads there, deepens there and you arch your back even more, pulling his head to your other nipple so he can do the same thing. Join your other hand to his hair and do whatever you please—turn his head side to side, from one nub to the other—and he lets you, giving you, momentarily, his control. You feel your essence soaking the seat beneath you and you thank the heavens that the fabric is one of leather. You lift his head and try to push it down, but he won’t budge. Stares you down instead, lustfully.

“Where do you want me?” he asks, a wrinkle between brows. “Be a good girl and tell me.” Pops the lollipop back in his mouth.

You sigh, kissing him once on the side of his neck, using your tongue. Make sure you’re looking at him as you reply, “On my clit.”

He moans, eyes woozy, finger on the stick as he sucks the candy, clefts of dimples on either side of his cheeks. You palm his length, your own digits rounding across his tight balls and he whisks his irises back, grinding into your hand. “You want a lickie?”

“Yes, so bad, please.”

He hums and kneels before you, kissing your clit once in greeting. Then, he flattens his tongue and licks a fat stripe across your whole femininity—from your slit, to your swollenness. Hands on your hips, index curled around the lollipop, he holds you steady, prevents you from meeting him, as he stimulates you like this. Up and down, tongue rolling, eyes fixed on you, devouring you. And when he stops to suck your clit, he taps your mouth once with the ball of the lollipop. The act of sucking on something while you’re getting pleasured like this almost throws you over the edge, your body coated in a layer of sweat, but Jungkook withdraws in time. Presses the delight in the middle and rubs small circles, just to prepare you for the big thing. You become so whiny, so loud that his eyes grow in size, watching you in awe.

To reward you for such beauty, he rapidly strums it from side to side, causing you to nearly levitate, but he pins you down. Wetting it and placing it back down, grunting at the aftertaste of you mixed with the sweetness.

And he can’t resist. Can’t hold back. The wrinkle between his brows deepens when he tastes you, licking you all over, tongue stopping occasionally its feast to flick at your clit before he swallows you whole. Grunts, sucks, licks. Eyes closed to savor the taste. The pressure in your core heightens, even more so when he lifts your legs, greedy for the side dish in the form of your other hole. You’re so close that you might burst.

“You taste so fucking good, baby. So sweet. Come on my tongue, please, I want more of you.”

He wants more of your taste.

You come so hard that your orgasm takes you to an open sea, your body floating on calm waves, to and fro, eyes rolled to the sky—to the sunroof—seeing nothing but the elegance of the twinkling stars and deep purple clouds.

“That’s it, baby, so good. That’s my little girl.” He slaps the side of your thigh, bringing you back to him. “Listening so well, learning her lesson, coming so hard. I’m proud.”

His words alone could make you come again, but you’re distracted.

Jungkook unbuttons his pants and pulls out his manhood. Stroking himself, he lines his tip at your mouth. He doesn’t even have to tell you to open up—you do it yourself. Holding it at the base, he stuffs your throat right away, a guttural chuckle emitting out of his mouth when you gag. He pulls out to where you’re comfortable having him and you begin to bob your head, like you did with the lollipop.

“Yes, suck it like that, my love. Daddy loves it when you do that.”

His precum on your tongue, the way he’s holding himself, the position and his words—you moan around him, so out of your mind, so fucked out. And when he fucks your mouth, it turns you on so much that you go cross-eyed.

Jungkook pulls out quickly, as if the sight of it alone was about to make him come. A string of your saliva from his tip drips onto your chest and he slides into your mouth again just to poke your cheek, just to mimic what you did with the lollipop. You whine, liking it so much, to the point that he drills this tender place of yours until he can’t take it enough.

“Turn around.” You try to, but your legs are jelly. He manhandles you to the position he wants—on your knees, tits against the leather, arms around the headrest, the formerly abused cheek against it. “Hold onto it. Too bad we left bunny at home, huh?”

Jungkook runs his cock across your pussy and you grind against it, needing the friction after the way he used you. You whimper for him. “She’s probably wondering where we are right now and why we’re taking so long.”

“I’ll make it up to her.” He presses his length against your clit, encouraging you to use him back. “Rub your pussy like that on me, fuck.” He moves so it’s his tip that stimulates you. You ride him harder, moaning loudly against the leather. “You can make it up to her, too. Can ride her like I know you can. With a vibrator between your legs and hers, hm? How you like the sound of that?”

You’re so close you could come in a second, but you don’t want it like this. You need him inside of you. “Shut up, I’m literally gonna come like this. Fuck me.”

He fists your hair. Pain shoots up your scalp and he ruts into your heat. Fully. Until his pelvis collides with your ass. You scream.

Lips by your ear. “Is this how you talk to your Daddy?” He begins to pump into your little tight hole. Mercilessly. The leather squeaks, a horrible, rapid sound that you can only faintly hear because all that your senses can focus on is his cock. “Your Daddy that loves you so much?”

You come, pathetically. Sea and waves, palm trees that sway. Your legs tremble, but he keeps going, mouthing the shape of your ear.

He tsks. “I’m gonna tell bunny on you. Maybe I’ll be the one who gets to fuck her while you watch.” He gives you a hard stroke, one that is followed by rapid thrusts that scramble your brain. “She’ll be so disappointed to hear how bad you’ve been, but I’ll make sure to tell her how hard I fucked it out of you.”

Lifting you from the leather, he kneads your breasts, placing the lollipop in between and holding it up by squishing them.

“Come on, get your lollipop.” He bounces your tits in his hands, signalizing you that he wants you to do it with your mouth.

But you can’t do it. You come, majestically, your senses leaving you and wafting in the stuffed air of the car. Boneless, you sag in his arms.

Jungkook coos. “You come so well around me that I’ll be good to you. You’re just a cockslut, aren’t you, baby? You just can’t help it, hm?” He puts the lollipop inside your mouth, chasing his so-needed release.

It doesn’t take long for him to find the footsteps into that bliss that you left in your wake. He holds you like this, against him, tits spilling over his forearms as he jackhammers into you so hard that your whole body bounces, shakes and reacts to each grunt, to each whimper, to each kiss he presses onto your skin.

With the little of the brain you have left, you decide to talk him through it—because he fucks you so good.

“Come for me, Daddy, yes, please, fuck. Fill me up with your cum. I want it so bad, I want to feel you—” His cock twitches in you, but he continues, sloppily. “Yes, so good. That’s it. Come for your little girl, Jungkook.” A loud groan. A tight hold. A spurt of his cum inside your walls. You whimper and he fucks it deeper into you, giving you more of his liquid stars. “Jungkook, oh fuck, Jungkook, oh yes.”

And it’s that never-ending litany of his name that helps him chase his high to the fullest. He kisses your neck hard in gratitude for helping him come, marking you, marking this memory.

You stay like this for a little while. Sweaty, sticky, spent, breathing hard—lungs synced.

A warm announcement sneaks to your heart, one that screams it into the drowsy skies once Jungkook pulls out of you, turns you around and, stealing your candy, kisses you.

An announcement that you’re deeply and irrevocably in love with him.

“You sounded just like me.” He finishes your lollipop for you, chewing the small bulby head as he dresses you and his cum spills onto your panties.

Your smile is dopey, satisfied and you’re ready for sleep to take you, but Jungkook gets out of the car for a smoke. You think you need one, too, after what you’ve experienced together, and so you follow him out into the night on wobbly legs.

He leans against his car, a cigarette in his mouth, one hand cupping the fire as he flicks his lighter to life. You wait until he puffs out the smoke into the air before you fold into the side of his body, stealing his cigarette and inhaling it, giving it back to him.

Jungkook pats your head, rubbing your scalp, chin propped on it. “I didn’t mean what I said. You were perfect. I’m not telling shit to bunny, I promise.”

You smile, fondly. Didn’t take his words seriously, not at all, but you’re grateful for the reassurement regardless. It’s just role-play, nothing else.

“I know, baby,” you say, softly, massaging his stomach, going as far as under his shirt to feel his bare skin—ever so innocently.

“I wanted to fuck you the moment you sat down. You’re just my little helper and because of that I’m glad we’re going home with my cum in your panties,” he whispers, placing the cigarette on your lips, so you can take a drag. “You deserve every drop.”

You feel that familiar ache rooting in your core again, but you don’t think you can take another round. Jungkook lifts your chin, making you look at him. Twinkles, bigger than the ones of the stars up above, living in his soft eyes. That cute nose. Those pouty lips. His silky, dreamy heart that looks out for you and puts you first.

The three words that you’ve never told him before rise up your body and you think now is the perfect occasion to say them.

“I love you.”

Wetness coats his eyes and the twinkles broaden, saturating them with an unfathomable, fulging light. He flicks his cigarette away, presses you closer to him and with his now free hand, he cups your face. Kisses you. For a long, long time.

“I love you.”

BACK to masterlist

#jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #btscreatorscorner #kpop smut #jungkook one shot

1K notes · View notes

yooniivrse · 1 month ago

Text

bouquet | myg

summary. every day with you serves as a reminder that you are, in fact, the best thing that has happened to him

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: established relationsip au, fluff

word count: 1.3k

content: oc buys yoongi flowers / my man is whipped

warnings: none <333

notes: u can find the post explaining how i imagine yoongi and oc’s apartment here (in case u wanna visualise it better) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so appreciated!! i hope you guys enjoy <333

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The fresh scent of flowers tickles your nose as you hold the bouquet close to your chest. You can't help but pride yourself in your selection as you admire the pale colours that caress each petal; an arrangement of pinks the same shade as the blush you often find creeping across your cheeks, oranges that mimic the morning sky on a winter day, yellows that remind you of the sunshine that warms your eyelids as you lie in bed during summer, and whites that reflect the hue of the moon.

It may not be perfect, but it's just right for your boyfriend — this you're sure of. Because it's Yoongi who causes your blushes and watches the sunrise with you in his arms despite the chilly weather; it's Yoongi who convinces you to stay in bed for "just a bit longer", until the day is almost gone but it doesn't feel wasted because it was spent with him.

Yoongi illuminates the dark skies that often haunt you, lighting up even your dullest days in his own way. And he whispers sweet nothings in your ear at night as if they're words from the moon itself.

Getting Yoongi flowers wasn't something you set out in the morning intending to do. You had come across the bouquets on your way back home from work, catching sight of them in the window of a quaint flower shop tucked in the corner of a street. It still baffles you how you had managed to not see the building for so long despite knowing the street like the back of your hand.

It was hard to miss too, given the amount of intricately put together bouquets wrapped in parchment paper and potted plants that were displayed on wooden stands just outside. They spilt out across the sidewalk, painting the grey town with the pop of colour it desperately needed.

You don't know what it was, but nothing had felt more right for you to do at that moment. So you marched in and paid an outrageous amount of money without a second thought.

And now, here you were — unable to hide the smile on your face despite the burn on your cheeks — watching the elevator ascend to the floor of your apartment. The pixelated numbers seemed to be moving slower than usual today, but you didn't linger on it for too long.

Eventually, the steel doors part to let you out, and you walk down the empty hallway to your apartment. It's a struggle to unlock the door with the flowers in one hand and your tote bag flimsily slung around your other shoulder, but you manage.

The door opens with a familiar creak and you step inside.

The immediate aroma of food that hits you is sudden, but also mouth-watering. You make your way down to the source of the smell — the kitchen — to find Yoongi working away at the stove.

A short towel hands around his neck, catching the droplets of water that fall from the ends of his hair. A loose, black t-shirt hangs on his figure, along with a pair of grey sweatpants. He hums an oddly staccato tune to himself, completely immersed in whatever he's cooking.

"Hi."

Yoongi's gaze immediately moves from the dish in front of him to you, a smile spreading across his face.

"Hello." He meets your eyes for a brief second before moving down to the flowers. He quirks an eyebrow, lifting his gaze again. "Special occasion?"

"No. I got them for you...just because," you reply with a shrug, walking over to him with the bouquet outstretched in your hands.

"Oh. I- Thank you." You don't fail to catch the tint of pink that creeps across his skin, slowly becoming prominent around the tips of his ears as he takes the flowers from your hand.

He stares at the arrangement for a few seconds, and you feel a flutter of nervousness in your stomach. He would like them, right?

"So, whatcha cooking?" you ask, eyeing the pot of noodles. A small pile of thinly cut cucumber rests on a cutting board just beside the stove, but before you can take in everything else displayed across the marble, Yoongi's lips are on yours.

You melt into the kiss almost instantly. Your heart soars in your chest and the nerves in your stomach wash away, only to be replaced by the erratic flutter of butterflies.

Yoongi tastes faintly of mint and love, and the pressure of his kiss is slightly stronger than usual — as if he's reminding you of who his heart belongs to, even though you're already well aware.

The feeling of knowing that you're loved is almost overwhelming, but you bask in it, unable to stop your lips from spreading into a smile against his mouth.

"God, I love you so much," Yoongi mumbles as he pulls back, tenderly moving a few strands of your hair behind your ear, and you giggle at his words.

"I love you too, baby," you reply. His eyes crinkle into soft crescent moons, and he places another peck against your lips.

"Where do you think we should put it?" He does a quick scan of the room and you follow his movements. The coffee table would've been your first option, but it's occupied by the flowers he got you on your most recent date.

"Hmm." Your eyes move down the room. "I think it should look fine in the bedroom."'

Yoongi hums in agreement. "You're right. I'll put them here for now, 'cause I'm fucking starving right now."

"Oh my God, same," you reply as he places the bouquet on the marble island behind him. "What are you making anyway?"

"Just jajangmyeon. You mentioned wanting it last night, so I thought I'd make it for you. Didn't want you to get food poisoning like last time when we went to that sketchy restaurant."

"You're amazing," you say, loudly kissing him on the cheek. "I was literally craving it all day today."

Yoongi lets out a soft chuckle. "I knew you would be. Don't worry, it'll be ready pretty soon."

"I'll go get changed then. Don't burn down the house!"

"That's rich coming from you," he says with a snort.

You feign innocence with a shrug. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Mhm, sure you don't."

As you leave the kitchen, your laughter still echoing in the room, Yoongi lingers by the bouquet. A feeling of warmth blooms across his skin, and he's sure that it has nothing to do with the stove.

Even as he continues to stir the noodles, the only thing he is focused on is the single thought in his head.

You really are the best thing that has happened to him.

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madschiavelique · 6 days ago

Text

A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 8 - Knight of Pentacles

summary : reader is pushing herself a bit too hard while studying for the exams, so sky calls in for reinforcement (jayce and viktor)

content warnings : some angst, more banter, viktor ain't having none of reader's bullshit

word count : 5,4k

author's note : okay so this has some kind of underlying brat!reader x dom!viktor dynamics ngl but no smut obviously! just lots of innuendos hihi

proofread by the lovely @yaffles-world

masterlist : here

taglist : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal @kryscent @hypocritic-trash-baby @kapitankarate @a-lovers-card @ababanerb @lolixsstuff @forget-me-not-my-dear @smolanchovy @shugar0cone0alt @harrys--ferret-blog @suuummerrr @stillinracooncity @noxturnalmoth @dlbitch @cloufire @csolya @kathyholdsagrudge @furblrwurblr

You buried your nose and mouth in your elbow, a coughing fit taking hold of you until your lungs vibrated and echoed in your chest. You huffed, bringing your forehead to your hand as you swallowed. Your throat ached, but despite the pain, you kept going.

"If we follow Nesvor's principle on the calculation of energical stabilisation between a trajectory force and the Von Gasan Indicator of a speeding particle, we can deduce that x..."

You continued your recitation, your voice hoarse and your mind acting mechanically.

A week had passed since Professor Heimerdinger's announcement, and you had been studying non-stop.

You'd spent your first weekend working between customers at the café, your own cups piling up in the corner of the storeroom while your breaks were spent re-reading your notes and starting your revision sheets between your sandwich and your shots of espresso.

You'd underline, highlight, circle, synthesise, frantically searching your notes for formulas and key words to incorporate into your sheets until your fingertips were covered in neon yellow and black ink when you gave customers their orders.

When classes arrived on Mondays, Sky woke up at her usual time while you were already awake above your desk, the light dimmed as you transcribed your Practice of Elemental Alloys lessons.

"You're awake already?" she grumbled, rubbing her eyes.

"Made some coffee," you replied, simply, as her eyes returned to the coffee pot, half empty already.

"Oh, nice." She articulated before getting up, bringing her body without connecting her tired neurons by pouring herself a cup.

It wasn't until she reached the shuttle stop that she considered the fact that you'd never gone to bed the night before. She watched you, concerned, as your eyes were riveted on your sheets, rereading them, your lips forming the words written on them without any sound coming out.

The first lesson came, and you were attentive, noting down almost every word the teacher said with a speed that Sky didn't even think possible, using your own unintelligible shorthand. You took part in every question, as if you'd already done the same lesson three times.

When the break came, you didn't even get a word in edgeways as you got out your flask to pour yourself another coffee, eating your lunch without much interest, your eyes never leaving the multitudes of lines in your lessons.

When evening came, you almost rushed to your desk, pulling out all your notebooks and sheets of paper to grab another revision sheet and get straight down to work.

When she called you for dinner, you'd simply tell her you weren't finished, that you'd eat later, and she'd left you a plate in the fridge.

While Sky tucked herself under her blanket, ready to sleep, you were still at your desk, hunched over your notes.

And when morning came and she woke up, there you were, sitting at your desk, your back bent like a wilting flower. When she opened the fridge door to get herself a juice, she found the plate. Untouched – it hadn't moved a millimetre.

It was at this point that she really started to worry.

"You didn't eat?" she asked.

"Didn't what?" you repeated, turning your head only when the silence had stretched out for a few seconds and your eyes went from Sky to the open fridge door. You raised your eyebrows. "Ah, no," you replied with a small smile as you turned back to your notes. "Forgot."

"Did you.. go to sleep?" she questioned.

"Yeah, around one in the morning. Woke up at five." you explained, twirling your pen in your hand as you tried to absorb information from another class.

"That's four hours of sleep." Sky chuckled, slightly nervous at the news. "How much did you sleep the previous night?"

You smiled, tired. "Don't worry, Sky. I'm fine." You pointed with your chin to the kitchen worktop. "Made some coffee."

She sighed, taking one of the tupperware containers from the cupboards to transfer the contents of your plate and save it for lunch. She did her best, however, to ignore your little coughs and sniffs.

Noon came, and you hardly ate anything. You had only taken a few mouthfuls, absent-mindedly immersed in notes on another subject.

Had you eaten breakfast? How much coffee had you had? Had you really slept a bit last night, or had you lied so as not to worry Sky?

Another evening followed the same pattern, and another day dawned without you moving from your desk. Dark circles were beginning to form under your eyes, your lips seemed less coloured and more chapped, your complexion lightened.

You were shaking slightly, your body growing more and more tired. You were already coughing more frankly, covering yourself with an indoor scarf as Sky's eyes drifted more and more towards your bin, which was filling up with tissues.

You looked like a zombie, barely lucid, mechanical in your movements as you pressed your fingers to your forehead.

You had started to fall seriously ill. The lack of sleep combined with your diet of mostly coffee and energy bars was beginning to be too much for your body to cope with. You wouldn't even have been surprised if you'd managed to lose a kilo since you started studying.

As Friday drew to a close and you were mindlessly dropping things off at your desk, Sky pulled out the shopping bag for a refill.

"Need anything?"

You didn't turn, gathering up your revision kit, clearing your nearly-breaking throat to answer her. "We're running low on coffee, I think."

She sighed. You were completely locked in this state. No matter how many dishes she prepared to give you extra time to study, it seemed she couldn't reach you, couldn't make you understand that at this rate you were going to get worse.

"I'm going to the library," you said, leaving almost as soon as you'd got in.

"Okay. Well... good luck," she answered, before you stepped through the door.

You only hummed an absent "mhm" as you left. Sky picked up a shopping bag, thinking for a moment before stepping out of the door a little later in turn. She wasn't going to make a simple trip to the shop, not when you had to be reasoned with and she had no influence on what you had to hear.

So she went down the stairs, and instead of going through the doors to get out of the dormitories, she continued on to one of the lower flats.

She knocked on the door, waiting a moment and thinking about what to say, hoping they'd be here.

It opened to Jayce.

"Sky?" He said, obviously surprised to see her here like this.

She took a deep breath. "Is Viktor here as well?"

Jayce, still confused, opened his door fully to reveal Viktor sitting on his bed reading his notes. She huffed – Viktor at least had the decency to revise without exceeding the limits of what a body could tolerate.

Her eyes returned to Jayce as Viktor broke his eyes away from his notes to rest on her.

"Can I talk to you guys for a minute?"

They exchanged worried glances, Jayce opening the door a little wider to let her in.

"What's the matter?" Asked Viktor, turning to sit on the edge of his bed.

"It's..." she stared at the floor for a moment, searching for words before uttering your name. Viktor's eyebrows furrowed, his interest clearly piqued. "She's sick."

"Sick?" Jayce repeated, having never before associated your name and that word together in all the time he'd known you.

"Since Heimerdinger announced the finals, she's been working like her life depends on it. She barely speaks, she doesn't eat, and I've started doubting if she even sleeps." She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers firmly gripping the flesh of her elbow. "She's been coughing, I haven't been able to have her take her temperature... She's getting worse by the day. At this rhythm I fear she could get worse."

Viktor stood up, pressing on his cane to adjust himself and move towards Sky. "Have you voiced your concerns to her ?"

"I did," she confirmed, nodding, "but she won't listen to me. That's why I came to see you."

"Us?" Jayce repeated, surprised.

"Yes. You've known her for longer than I do," she said, turning to Jayce, "I'm sure she'll listen to you."

"I don't know if I can make her listen to reason," he sighed.

Her eyes darted from Jayce to Viktor. "I'm sure she'll listen to you both."

"Both of us?" Viktor asked, arching his eyebrows.

She pressed her lips into a thin line. "You may not realise it, Viktor, but she has a lot of admiration for you."

He gave a laugh that was almost accompanied by his eyes rolling heavenward. "Miss Young, I don't think admiration is really the word for the situation."

"She won't admit it to herself." Sky sighed. "At least not right now. But she admires you, Viktor. She respects you. If there's one person who can change her mind or even make her realise how impossible her condition is, it's you."

Viktor's lips parted for a moment, surprised by the news, before they closed again and the muscle in his jaw tightened. "Should we go and see her now?"

"She's gone to the library. I'm not even sure she can find the strength to walk anymore."

Jayce and Viktor exchanged a knowing glance, and nodded.

Your eyes were starting to blur as you tried to read the jumble of letters forming supposed sentences over and over again.

"If we follow Nesvor's principle on the calculation of energical stabilisation... If we follow... If we..."

You felt your eyelids twitch, closing them for a moment to try and calm the incessant buzzing. Your eyes stung, your nose ran, your throat hurt with every swallow. You shook your head, trying to regain your composure and read the formulas you should know so well.

You heard your name called and turned to Jayce. He looked worried, examining you for a moment. Beside him was Viktor, his eyebrows noticeably knit. You sighed, your eyes returning with great difficulty to your endless lines of text.

"What do you want?" The question was cold between your lips, your throat itching as the sudden effort to speak caused you to cough more.

"Can we talk?" Jayce asked, stepping forward slightly with Viktor to face you.

You cleared your throat, your face tightening at the discomfort of the gesture. "I can't even express to you how much I would rather do literally anything else."

Jayce breathed in, sensing that the conversation wasn't going to be easy.

"You're sick, you have to get some rest-"

"I'll rest when the exams are done." Your glassy eyes turned to meet Jayce's.

Viktor huffed. "This is ridiculous."

You pouted, feeling too tired for this stupid game. "You're ridiculous."

Viktor seemed surprised, not by your remark, but by the weakness in it. You were always used to coming up with an elaborate response to his remarks, and now you were simply saying this?

You had disappointed him, you suspected, and your heart twisted slightly at the idea.

I can't be disappointed, you thought. Because if I disappoint them, I'm nothing.

"The fridge and the streetlight will both find something more studious to do than waste my time," you managed to mumble uneasily, your head hurting horribly as you shivered.

"How do you find the strength to have things to say when you're in such a pitiful state, Miss?" Viktor asked ironically.

"Let go of me," you breathed, sniffing and biting your cheek. Your jaw was so heavy it felt like lead weights had been hung on every tooth.

Viktor leaned in slightly towards you, Jayce standing back.

"How am I supposed to fight fair with you if you're not healthy?" His voice was softer, more tender. Concerned.

"And how am I supposed to stand up to you if I don't study?" Your cheeks were hot, fatigue tugging at every limb.

"It's not studying," he said as you met his gaze, "it's a relentlessness that's slowly killing you."

Why was he making all this effort for you? Why had he taken his precious time to come and talk to you? Was he trying to dissuade you from revising? Was this another strategy so that he could outdo you?

Feverish thoughts flooded your cotton-filled head.

"Do you doubt me that much?" You asked, bringing your tired eyes to his. "Am I a burden to you?"

His eyes widened, lips parted as silence returned to the room.

He thought so, didn't he? He didn't dare say it out loud, but surely he was thinking it. You followed him like a bad shadow all the time, you must have been unbearable.

You must have been a disappointment.

"That's what you think, isn't it?"

His jaw clenched, and your eyes were ready to prepare their tears, your nose stinging like you'd eaten too much mustard.

"You never had the time to really stop and care for yourself, have you?"

His voice was amber, fluid and vaporous as he delivered such bitter words to you.

"Why would you even care?" you chuckled, squeezing your eyes tightly shut as his vision blurred not with tears but with fatigue.

"I like you way more than my urge to hate you."

The sentence pierced your heart, your eyes widening for a moment to catch the truth that was nestled in his. He wasn't lying to you, was he? He wasn't just saying that to please you and prevent you from getting any more upset? After all, since when did Viktor say anything to please you? It didn't make sense.

You shook your head and stood up from your table, staggering as you tried to gather your things. "I'm going to study somewhere where neither of you will annoy me."

"Stop this." Jayce almost grumbled. "You shouldn't be doing anything in this sta..."

But Jayce's voice was beginning to fade dangerously as black flies began to fill your vision. Your body felt so heavy, getting up had been a mistake. Your head was spinning violently, the world seemed unstable and rocking to and fro.

You felt yourself falling backwards, and a hard, warm surface caught you as two hands grabbed your arms.

You heard your name being called – Jayce's voice no doubt. Everything was so blurred that it was impossible to tell where your body ended and the world began. You reopened your eyes weakly to see Viktor approach you with a worried look.

You were too weak to move, barely able to keep your eyes open.

He moved his hand closer to you, placing it on your forehead. His fingers were cold, long and soft against your skin. You closed your eyes at the sensation, trying hard not to tremble.

"Miss," Viktor said, his voice sounding concerned, "you're... burning."

You shivered, a small film of sweat covering your forehead as you felt your hair stick to your skin. You were so cold, trying to come back to reality, to steady yourself.

"But Nesvor's prince, Nesvor's prince..." You ranted deliriously.

"Let's take her back." Jayce said, you deduced his voice through the blur.

You simply felt hands on the back of your knees and your back before everything went black.

You kept waking up and going back to sleep, sometimes seeing light, sometimes hearing snatches of conversation, but you couldn't work out whether they belonged to dreams or reality.

"... You've got to get some sleep." Said a voice.

"Sleep can wait." Said another.

"Just... don't pull all nighters like her okay? I know her state is... but don't forget to... care... too..."

In this constant state between sleep and fever dream, you were cold. Sometimes you felt things. The cool sensation of a glass against your lips and the horrible taste of a mixture you couldn't quite work out, spreading down your throat and into your mouth.

The conversations seemed impossible to link together, to put in chronological order.

"... Think she'll get through?’

"... will take no time... medicine..."

You felt your chest rise every time you coughed, wincing at the sensation. You could barely feel the blanket covering you, as if you'd been covered with nothing more than a drape and left with nothing else.

Sometimes you managed to mumble, to talk to yourself in delirious dreams.

"I have to get back..." you breathed. "Studying, I have to."

You dreamt that your body was smaller, your limbs weak, your hair sticking to your forehead as you breathed hard. Everything around you was dark, a dull thud in the background of a crowd.

You felt a cold cloth on your forehead and chattered your teeth.

"Shh..." you heard. "It'll pass."

You wanted to curl into yourself, to find a warmth in the half-light that would envelop you, comfort you, reassure you.

"It'll be alright." In their battle against sleep, your eyes roamed the damp walls of a cellar where the orange light of candles was reflected. "It'll be over soon."

You wanted to take every flame in the room and gather them close to your heart, coat yourself in their warmth, wrap yourself in them and never have to tremble so pathetically again.

The voice in the dream was right. You opened your eyes with difficulty, still blurred, squeezing them until your nose wrinkled before you opened them again.

You weren't in a cave, you didn't have any cold, wet wipes on your forehead, no candles reflecting faintly off any rock walls.

You were in your flat, lying in bed, no longer shivering from the cold. You turned your head towards the window, watching the sun filtering through the panes.

How long had you slept? A night? An eternity? You couldn't place yourself.

You breathed a sigh, turning your head towards the rest of the room in the half-light, when your eyes fell on your bed.

Sitting there on a chair, someone had fallen asleep on your sheets. A ribbon of sunlight passing through the thin curtains of the windows was tracing across his brown hair and his closed eyes.

Viktor.

He was gracefully asleep, his head turned towards you on his crossed arms. He seemed peaceful at first glance, except for the frown that creased his forehead.

Why was he there? What was he doing at your bedside? What was he dreaming about, to make his eyebrows furrow like that?

You sat up in silence, moving slowly, not wanting to wake him. You watched him for a moment, silently contemplating the tiny specks of dust in the air passing through the gold ray.

Tentatively, you moved your hand closer, and it too entered the beam of sunlight, bathing it in a pleasant warmth.

What is he dreaming about?

You hesitated for a moment before, almost by instinct, you gently pressed your index finger between his eyebrows. You didn't really know why you were doing this, how long had it pained you to see him in any discomfort?

What is he dreaming about?

His frown disappeared under your fingers, like an eraser removing a cross-out. He looked so serene there, bathed in the sun glow. Did he sometimes think that the sky over Piltover was too big for the trickle of light you had in the bowels of Zaun?

What is he dreaming about?

His eyes opened slowly, the sun shining on the honey of his iris as they went from staring into space to landing on you.

He sighed, not moving from his current position, cheek resting on his arm as he looked at you quietly for a moment of silence.

"You're awake," he murmured, his voice numb with sleep.

"You were asleep," you answered in a voice just as small, regaining the use of a throat that hurt less but was still unpleasant.

What were you dreaming about? you wondered, hoping that he would tell you on his own, that he would confide in you. But he said nothing, just stared at you. You couldn't make out his expression, couldn't tell what he was thinking, and you finally understood the frustration he felt when he tried to find you out.

You looked around the rest of the room as you gradually woke up. You were safely in your room, the chair from your desk missing as Viktor sat on it. Sky wasn't there.

"Why are you here?" you asked.

He exhaled, raising his crossed arms as one of them came towards you. You moved your head back but your pillow prevented you from moving any further. Two of his fingers touched your forehead. They were warm, the residual heat of sleep still enveloping them. He sighed, bringing his hand up to rest his chin on his palm, pressing his two fingers from your forehead against his cheekbone.

"You are ill." He explained. "I was just making sure this would stop."

You gazed at him, not saying a thing.

"When I was still in Zaun, I used to be just like you. I used to go days without sleeping, without eating, doing whatever I could to prepare for the exams. I know what it's like to push yourself too hard to achieve something higher than yourself. But destroying yourself before you reach your goal is no way to enjoy the taste of victory."

You pursed your lips, straightening slightly and bringing your legs towards you, cross-legged.

"Why did you do this?" You asked, puzzled. "Why did you help me?"

He gave a little laugh that made him sway on the balance of his hand.

“Because someone once said that they had this old human thing called 'free will',” he smiled, ”and mine dictated to me that I had to get you to rest.”

You chuckled, lowering your eyes to your hands, bringing your fingers together and beginning to triturate them mechanically.

“But... why?” You kept coming back to this question, trying to find out what his real motives were.

“Can't have my best rival sick while she goes against me now, can I?”

My best rival; the appellation made you feel all funny in your tummy, or maybe that was just your symptoms.

You glanced at the window, the sun still splitting a blond line across your blanket.

“How long have I been sleeping?”

Viktor's shoulders relaxed. “You've been in and out of sleep since we brought you back from the library yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” You choked.

You'd found yourself at the library at around seven-thirty, and if the sun was already up...

“What time is it?” But a far more distressing realization dawned on you. “Oh fuck, I have to get to work.”

You straightened up, already pulling on your comforter to try and get up. But Viktor straightened, sitting down on your bed as he placed his hands on your comforter, at the same height as your hips.

You frowned, recoiling as your head hurt.

“No.” He said simply.

You sat up, confused.

“What do you mean 'no'?”

He didn't move, keeping his hands on your blanket. “Sky went to them and told them you would be taking the day off due to your health.”

“What?” You saidas if someone had just punched you in the stomach and the shock had expelled that simple word. “But-”

“No ‘but’,” he remarked firmly, carefully relocating your cover on top of you. “You are staying in bed today. End of discussion.”

You chuckled, apprehensive to respond to this, but Viktor gave you a simple look, the kind of glance that firmly underlines 'you don't want to fight me on this.'

You crossed your arms over your chest. “I still have to study.”

He shook his head slightly, chin high. “Don't care. You are resting today.”

“And what if I don't rest?” you asked, arching an incredulous eyebrow.

He let out an arrogant huff. “Want me to call Jayce? I might not have his strength, but I have enough determination for the both of us.”

You bit your cheek, pouting. “You can't pin me to bed all day long.”

He chuckled, almost darkly. “It's cute that you think I'm not capable of it.”

You inhaled heavily. “Can't run after me so you're just going to tie me to my bed, is that it?” You almost spat.

He seemed very amused by your remark, happy even. “You're giving me ideas.”

You'd recovered your rebuttal, and that seemed to reassure and satisfy him.

“How are you feeling?” He asked before reaching for his cane resting against the wall next to your head.

“Sore throat, sore head, sore all over.” You sighed, drawing your knees together in front of you until you rested your head against them.

You could hear him getting up, his cane tapping against the floor of your apartment like a new sound catalogued to his name. “Sky should be here soon, she's gone to the pharmacy.”

You turned your head to the side, watching him. He'd reached the sink, turned on the worktop light, taken an empty glass between his long slender fingers.

"Are you going to fill me full of pills?" You asked, tiredly.

He cut a packet of medicine in half, wedging it between his teeth and tearing the slit in the paper. He poured the contents into the glass before running it under water. He had rolled up his sleeves, the light over the worktop highlighting his silhouette. You let your eyes wander lasciviously over his forearms as he took a spoon to stir the whitish mixture.

"We've had a doctor in the meantime." He put the spoon down on the worktop, picked up his cane and came over to you. "He prescribed a treatment. I had a few sachets of the same medicine left in my things so we used them on you." He sat down on the bed, handing you the glass. "Sky's gone to get some more.’

"What about Jayce?"

"Gone to see Selene," He replied, pushing the glass a little closer to you. "Drink this."

Your mouth fell open in shock.

"What?"

You'd never told Jayce, or Sky. Only Viktor knew.

"You told them about Selene?!" You raised your voice, regretting it as you began to cough.

Viktor sighed, bringing the glass back in front of you. "Drink this, and then we'll talk."

You were about to answer, but the words melted off your tongue like butter when Viktor spoke again. "Don't argue with me."

You looked at him for a moment, frustrated, before bringing both hands to the glass. You reached for it, your fingers brushing against his for a moment.

You brought the mixture close to your nose, the smell making your whole face pucker. You exchanged a glance with Viktor, who nodded to encourage you not to worry too much about it.

"Till the very last drop," he said, spacing each word carefully.

You huffed, taking one last look at the contents before bringing it to your lips, frowning immediately as you took your first sip. You remembered the taste; you'd drunk it between fever dreams.

You swallowed the last mouthful with great difficulty, passing Viktor an empty glass as you pressed the back of your free hand to your mouth. He seemed amused, rising again to refill your glass with clean water that didn't taste atrocious.

"Why did you tell them about her?" You asked, still annoyed.

"Selene is your legal guardian, she deserves to know the state you're in." He refilled the glass, bringing it back to you. "And besides, she's the one person in your circle who knows the most about you."

"You didn't need to tell them about her…" you grumbled as you took the glass with much less suspicion than before.

Whose job had it been to give you the treatment while you slept?

He sighed quietly. He didn't seem to have missed your stubbornness. Or maybe he was just tired. You turned to him. You'd woken up with him at your bedside. Had he been watching over you? You took a sip from the glass of water, an immensely diluted remnant of the remaining treatment swirling in it.

"The medicine," you begun hesitantly, "were you the one giving it to me while I was asleep?"

He breathed in gently, his eyes dropping to the glass you were holding for a moment, tilting his head to one side as his lips parted. But his sentence never came as the apartment door opened on Sky.

Viktor got up from the bed, moving away as Sky put the shopping bag on the table before coming towards you, all smiles.

"You're awake!" She exclaimed. "How are you feeling ?"

Your eyes drifted to Viktor, who had walked straight over to the packet Sky had left on the table and checked its contents.

"Better," you admitted, your eyes drifting back to the glass, your thumb caressing the outline.

"Um, Miss Young?" Viktor asked, the latter turning to him as you followed her gaze. "You know how to administer the treatment. Make sure to give her the next one in five hours from now." He moved towards the door. "If she resists..." He turned to you, giving you a knowing look before returning to Sky's. "Come to us. We'll take care of it."

He gave you one last look before walking out, leaving you and Sky alone with a few hundred questions.

"How did the night go?" You asked, unable to stay still, your desire to know stronger than your tiredness.

"The guys... Viktor was amazing," she admitted. "They brought you back here; Jayce was a bit panicked." You both smiled. “Viktor had the situation under control."

You remained silent, waiting for Sky to continue her recounting.

"He immediately asked about all your symptoms in detail, calmly telling Jayce to go and get some of his own medicine from their flat. If you'd seen the way Jayce rushed down the corridor..." She laughed, and you imagined the scene perfectly, smiling back. "Viktor never left your side."

You breathed in, thinking back over the snatches of conversation, putting together the fragmented pieces of a blurred memory. Sleep can wait. It was Viktor's accent.

"He gave you each dose of medicine, every five hours, sharp. Like clockwork. I don't even know if he slept." She stood up, heading for the bag.

"Wow," you breathed, "Viktor did... all this? For me?"

You couldn't believe it. How could he have gone to so much trouble, spent so much time making sure you got better?

“See,” Sky smiled as she came over to you, bringing a pastry with her, "he isn't that bad.’’ She handed you the delicacy. "Here, a treat from Emeline. I swear I thought all her freckles were going to fall from her face when she heard you were sick."

You took the sweet in your hands, smiling at it: your favourite order from her. Sky stood up again, heading for the worktop.

"Hey, Sky?" She turned to you, and you saw a slight fatigue on her face. Poor thing must have spent half her night listening to you rave in your sleep and coughing your lungs out. "Thank you – for all of this."

She smiled, relieved. "You would have done the same for me."

And it was true. In the quartet you all formed, you would have done the same, even for Jayce, even for Viktor. She turned again, moving on as you took a mouthful of your pastry.

After the vile taste of the medicine, you had heaven on your tongue. You savoured it for a moment, your head turning towards your bedside table until you found your tarot deck.

You shuffled a few cards, cutting as usual, and turned the deck over to reveal the Knight of Pentacles. You picked up the little booklet, flipping through until you found the page.

You began to read the key words, and felt your cheeks flush as you glanced at Sky to make sure she was busy. When that proved to be the case, you went back over the lines: Physical and sensual. Introspective. Slow energy with incredible results.

Sensual?

The Knight of the Pentacles carries the slowest energy in the game. He stares at the pentacle in his hand as he considers his next move. Will he plant it like a seed in the freshly ploughed field beside him, or will he slip it into his pocket and ride off into the sunset? It is all about plotting and planning the future.

A knight... representing Viktor?

You closed the little manual, your eyes staring into space.

What was he dreaming about?

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#a crown of ink #acoi #viktor x reader #arcane viktor #arcane #viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x you #viktor arcane x reader #arcane viktor x reader #arcane x reader #arcane x you #viktor fanfic #viktor fic #arcane viktor x you #viktor x fem!reader #viktor x female reader

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cho-aaacho · 10 months ago

Text

Jealousy isn't really your style, is it?

Masterlist

Characters : Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi, and Choso.

Gojo Satoru

He becomes increasingly silent—too silent until you can't detect his emotion. His appetite vanished as waves of jealousy showered on his mind. You don't even notice that at first, thinking he might be tired from work.

However, as the sun goes down to the horizon and is replaced by the moonlight, his smile fades whenever your eyes meet his. He refrains from calling you endearing nicknames, skips the usual sensual morning kiss, and avoids his favorite cookies. When you suggest playing video games, Gojo simply groans and leaves you alone.

What's happening to him? Did you hurt your sweetheart? No. Until the sky falls, you don't have a heart to hurt your sweetheart.

You can't let the stillness linger; you can't leave everything unresolved. It's so hurtful, to be honest. Why would Gojo be so selfish like this? You need to find out what's going on with your little sweetheart.

That night, Gojo stood in his favorite spot within the apartment, drowning in the beautiful goldfish in the aquarium. Golden and yellow, reflected in his eyes like sunflower petals.

He gently tapped his finger on the aquarium's glass, making the whole atmosphere feel so cold. Gojo seemed unusually relaxed, in contrast to the person he once was.

"I know I might come off as a boring and annoying man. People often say that, and I usually don't care about it at all because I understand it's not important. But when it comes from you—please... I don't want to hear that."

You do not quite understand what he means, but Gojo appears deeply hurt. His azure eyes, his words, his breath, the cologne he uses this time, the way he gazes at you—something feels off and unplaced.

This is the first time you've seen him so blue and so pained that the warmth in his lovely presence is almost undetectable. Everything is gone.

"Hey, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but it hurts me when you smile at other guys. I want you to be mine, and only mine, and no one else. Please don't do that again, because you're irreplaceable. If I lose you, I can't find another like you."

Geto Suguru

At first, he doesn't show his jealousy because Geto is the sweetest.

However, there comes a moment when he becomes more affectionate—increased physical touch, frequent kisses, hugs, showering you with praise, texting you almost every hour.

And when he does these things, he always leaves a sarcastic comment like, "I'm a better man, aren't I?" or "Can you see how much I care about you more than anyone else?"

and "I hope you're not blind enough to understand my affection."

also "I know you're not stupid enough to leave me alone. Because I hate being a loner."

It's somewhat annoying because Geto rarely behaves like this. It's simply... so strange, leaving you confused about whether it's a prank by the twins, if something horrible has hit him, or maybe he is too much into reading a weird romantic novel.

That morning, when you are sleeping on his lap, feeling his love, warmth, and kindness, he delicately traces his fingertips across your cheeks, down to your jawline, then meanders to your nose, pinching it gently, leaving a small chuckle before circling back to playfully tease the contour of your lips.

He leaned closer, sealing a gentle kiss on the nose tip and moving before grazing your lips with a small nibble. "Did Satoru ever kiss you like this? I doubt he has done this to you."

Your eyes fluttered open, confusion etching your expression. "What do you mean, Suguru-kun?"

He sighed. "Don't think I haven't noticed, cutie. I may not match Satoru's strength, but I'm not stupid. What were you up to with him last week? You seemed quite charmed with him, didn't you?"

He added. "Should I end both of you, so he can't have you and you can't have him? But I lack the heart to harm you, sweet love. Stop talking with that man. Because I hate sharing my love with someone else."

Nanami Kento

A tough man, he doesn't even realize if jealousy is starting to invade him; perhaps you might label it as denial.

He puts on a facade that everything is fine, brushing off any concerns by assuming them to be mere imagination or work-induced stress.

No, you didn't cheat or talk with another man. You're always a nice woman to Nanami Kento, and of course, never in your wildest dreams will you hurt your man.

However, a weird sensation starts to trouble him the next day when his coworkers engage in silly gossip about him and you.

Whispers float behind him, dripping with a sarcastic tone like, "How could a good woman like her date someone like Nanami-san? He's so boring."

and someone chimes in. "Yeah, I heard she dumped Gojo-san and went with him; why does she think like that?"

From that moment onward, everything feels upside down.

Each day, each time, every time he sees your face, catches your gaze, and hears your voice echoing in his ears, all of these hurt him.

He feels like he doesn't deserve you and thinks that perhaps you can find another guy, someone special, someplace that would make you safe and happy, someone who could make you feel at home whenever you run to them.

And that man is not me.

"I realize I might not be as caring as other men, or perhaps I come off as too boring for someone like you. Honestly, I don't wish for your kindness to be shared with anyone else—even a fleeting smile from you stirs a deep ache within me. Maybe it's an obsession, but if you allow me to share my jealousy, I don't want you to meet that guy, Gojo Satoru. For heaven's sake, I fear losing all control and ending up hurting you. I love you."

Fushiguro Megumi

Honestly, his anger management is the worst. There are scenes when he appears calm, collected, and cute, but, again, it's merely a facade he is creating, especially in your presence.

When the flames of jealousy shower on Megumi, flirting with his life, everything transforms into a hellish field.

He loses his temper and becomes easily offended whenever Yuuji attempts to engage in conversation with him, roasting everyone in sight. The situation continues until Maki beats him and tells him how annoying he is.

He has a terrible urge to throw punches at everyone, driven by the need to tell them that you belong to him. He needs to make it clear that you're already committed to someone else and that your heart is sealed with Fushiguro Megumi. Only with that man and no one else.

His intention is not just to show his obsession but also to dissuade others from bothering both of you. He longs to compel them to kneel, satisfying his fleeting sense of pride.

It's pretty hilarious because whenever Gojo catches wind of it, he bursts into laughter and playfully teases Megumi all day. Well, it's natural for anyone to have jealousy within them, but... doesn't Megumi take it a bit too far?

You've observed this pattern and tried to convince your dear boyfriend that everything around him is just his imagination. He shouldn't be worrying, and he just hurts himself by treating people like that.

Yet, Megumi is Megumi.

"I don't think I'm overreacting to this. When I'm upset, I express it openly. It's frustrating when people assume I'm obsessed with you—I'm not. I just don't want you to get involved with someone who isn't worth it for you. I fear you'll end up hurt. You can choose me; I can prove not only to you but to everyone that I am the one who truly deserves you."

Choso

Choso isn't typically the jealous type, but when he notices a certain closeness between you and his brothers, everything changes.

He genuinely cares for his brothers, going to great lengths to ensure their happiness and love. He values the bond you share with his brothers and cherishes the love and affection you have for each other.

However...

It's hard for him to put it into words. Everything is stuck in his throat and sealed inside his head.

Every time he sees you with his brothers blossoming an indescribable feeling within him, it's a burning sensation that's hard to bear. The flame is starting to burn him alive.

The way you share meals with them or laugh at their jokes—all of these irritate him to the point that they make his heart beat so fast. Choso is aware that these emotions are too complicated; he can't hate his brothers, but the heart has a way of contradicting logic.

How could God put love in his heart?

He fondly recalls the first snow you experienced together, the gentle embrace of summer against his skin, and the golden glow of spring's sun.

But he still wonders when he falls in love with you. Maybe since the first time he met you? Or else?

"I find immense joy in sharing my time and days with you. My brothers seem to love you as well. Everything about you is beautiful, and I cherish the moments we share. I fear losing you and our precious time; that's why I act this way when you're with them. I want to be the one you choose."

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi x reader #choso x reader #choso x you #choso jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader

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justatypicalwizard · 26 days ago

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Up and under | Jayce

Aracne Jayce x Zaun seamstress reader The relationship went up and under, missed chances and regrettable mistakes. If only Zaun and Piltover were not so very different places. After spending days in that pit Jayce understood that before the upcomming battle he has to make things right with you. Jayce and reader have history before the Arcane plot. This story follows the second season of Arcane but loosely. Word count: 3,5k

He really should have asked you to dance that night. Jayce thought to himself as he laid at the dark bottom, the hole he fell into. It must have been days, weeks even. His hair grew long and messy, beard scratched and muscles ached from the omnipresent cold. The broken bone was nearly mended, judging from his ability to walk.

Thrashing around the dirty floor for hours upon hours Jayce had time to think. It felt like He had never wondered before, not like that. Jayce Talis was hardly a man of overinterpreting and overthinking. He deemed himself sturdy and down to earth. Maybe if he ever took the time to properly gaze upon his doings he wouldn't be here now. Viktor wouldn't be corrupted by the hextech, Sky wouldn't be dead and the whole of Piltover wouldn't be a ruin. He could have been dancing with you, gold and silver lacing the summer night air.

It was hard to remember exactly what charity event they attended. One of the families must have been throwing a ball. It could have been related to academia, that would answer why the heck he was even there.

Jayce was standing in line, a few other men in front of him. There was a multitude of people present in one of the academia rooms that day. Fitting for tuxedos. It must have been connected to his whole year, maybe the whole academia even if so many students were gathered.

Shaking his head he sighed, it felt like ages ago, too far for his mind to stretch. Doesn't matter.

What he did remember was the line he was standing in compared to the queue for your measuring. You were there, a simple yet trustworthy bag on the desk, sewing supplies scattered all around as you were never the type to mind putting tools back on their place when working. Gold seeped through the vast windows bathing you and Viktor in a golden hue, supplying you with the natural light that was best for your work, that you didn't have back home.

Only Viktor, good old Viktor, chose to try on your tuxedo, the seamstress from Zaun. How could he not, the two of you knew each other somehow. At first Jayce thought it was the reason you were allowed into academia in the first place. Later he learned about your standing as a seamstress and a stylist. Back then he didn't give much thought to his mistake, you were a Zaunian after all. He should be ashamed.

The other stylists clicked their tongues and rolled their eyes at you, a dirty intruder in their clockwork golden world, a faulty gear. But after being pushed into a shirt with a lacy ruff squeezing his throat like a bad cold Jayce gazed with longing at your fresh and modern designs.

Viktor looked handsome, turning around slowly on his trustworthy cane. His shirt was white and seemed to be crafted with meticulous precision, from geometric pieces hugging the body of the wearer in every right way. Jayce huffed, looking back at his own yolk yellow shirt and making a mental note to ask Viktor about you later, when no one will be watching.

That's how Jayce knew the way to your workshop. It was not deep Zaun, not slums infected with The Grey nor junkie tent-cities. Yet, it was past the bridge, past what seemed socially acceptable in his cast.

Even now, when the city was half abandoned, everyone preparing for the upcoming battle, Jayce Talis b-lined his past self into your workshop. It looked different than years before. The sign was more devilish, fungi building up on the wood, the original color long gone, the edges daring to leave your fingers full of splinters. The glass was dirty and oily from the bad air. The entry door dark and unwelcoming, not even a flicker of light behind them. Jayce knew better than to turn around, he learned it that day.

Viktor gave him the directions that he followed, finding himself in front of a small workshop. A hand-painted sign welcomed the patrons. With a little bit of hesitation he pushed the door open only to enter a nearly empty room. Apart from a few mannequins with rather odd looking dresses there was only dust hanging in the air. Jayce took a few steps forward and jumped in fear upon hearing someone's voice.

“What'cha lookin’ here for boy?” An old woman sat behind the counter. She was as still as a sculpture, easily overlooked as one of the mannequins. The tops of her white, rheumatic knuckles visible over the counter. She was clutching something under the surface.

In a peaceful manner Jayce raised his hands, slowly coming closer.

“I'm looking for a young seamstress. I need a tuxedo.” She looked Jayce up and down with a frown. “If I got the wrong address I'm sorry, I was following directions from a friend.”

“Friend who?” She pestered eying a stopwatch hanging from his pocket on a thin gold chain.

“One Viktor.” Jayce figured giving away his partner's surname to a shady Zaunian old lady most likely clutching a gun may not be the smartest idea. Instead he mimicked Viktor’s cane walk with an awkward smile.

“Down the stairs and to the right.” A clang could be heard from under the counter and a sigh left the man's lungs. As he passed the woman he saw her hungry gaze still zeroed in on the stopwatch. Jayce clutched it tighter descending the stairs.

Your head popped from under a pile of material, gaze surprised. Before you had time to ask who he was Jayce already stated his purpose. The short encounter with the old woman proved him not to test the limit of the Zaunian distrust.

“I'm here for a tuxedo.” He smiled, the atmosphere of the room lighter despite an even thicker density of dust in the air.

“Of course.” You neared him with a measuring line but halted to gaze at the stopwatch on the thin golden chain. “On second thought, I may not have materials to your liking, sir.”

Sir. A transparent wall grew between you and him. The glint in your eye was gone, replaced with something sad.

“I can bring material, it's the design I'm more hung on honestly.” Somehow Jayce didn't want the fierceness of your gaze to drift away. He wanted to see it when you looked at him. Yet, you still didn't look sure, taking a step back and breaking your fingers. “Viktor said I should visit you, I asked who designed his set.” Maybe bringing forward a familiar name would melt the suddenly arisen tension.

His small manipulation worked. You seemed to nod at the name, quickly shooting questions about how he knew Viktor. He briefed you on the whole academia buddies, charity event thing and soon he was taking his coat off to give you the measurements.

The dim lights were not the vast academia windows flooding you with sunlight. A cramped room full of scraps to repurpose didn't meet the standards of Piltover designer workshops. A nobody Zaunian seamstress was not a renowned stylist. Yet, Jayce Talis followed every move of your skilled fingers working on his scarcely clothed arms, admiring how small your palm looked in his.

He dragged his tired legs further into the workshop. The odd dresses merged into an odd pile of junk, mannequins arm or headless, scattered on the floor. The man pushed forward, descending the stairs. He'd love for the memories of flickering candlelight, dusty air and your little intimate space to take over him but Jayce Talis was never one to escape his mistakes. So he went forward, taking in the ruin of what was left of your workshop, of your life. These walls remember countless conversation, a multitude of moments spent together. Bits of memories when Jayce missed chance after chance for what might have changed his life.

“I want to make peoples' lives better.” He stated, unconsciously pushing his chest forward, swelling with pride. He was spending, yet another, evening in the underground of your little workshop, your little world. Lately, he could be spotted here rather often, for measuring of course. “Especially the most hard-working ones like the miners - ouch!” A pin scratched him under the shoulder blade. “Was that on purpose?” Jayce smiled, turning his head to the side to look at you, working the material on his back. “What will people think if I leave with so many scratches on my back? Ouch! This one was on purpose.”

“You're being very improper, sir.” You seemed to be controlling the transparent wall, putting it up and tearing down to your liking

“I'm sorry.” He let out a small laugh. “Shouldn't be talking like that to my friend's lady.”

“You got it all wrong.” Jayce crooked a brow at your denying. “Not all Zaunians date each other just because we know one another.”

The strong division between the under and upper city was a constant variable in the chemistry of your encounters. At that time Jayce thought it was something natural, just as the world spinned, just as day came after night, Zaun and Piltover were opposites. Only later did he realise, it was his prejudice that inflicted this schema, that evoked such a defensive mechanism in you.

“Oh.” He breathed, a tint of pink dusting his cheeks at the thought of you possibly being open for options. He caught you peeking a look at him but you turned around.

“So, miners you were saying.”

“Yes.” Coughing awkwardly, he gathered his thoughts. “Just think about all the inventions that could make their work easier. Shorter shifts with the same level of efficiency, less physical labour per hour, safer work environment. With new technology I - I mean we could make Zaun a…” He stopped, red flashing his cheeks. Once again he let his stupid tongue lap uncontrolled.

“A better place.” You defleated like a hot-air balloon after all the tourists were done with their ride. “You don't need to hide your feelings about this place. I'm used to this.” There was a bite towards the end of your words. Used but they still hurt.

“Well, you shouldn't be used to them. Zaun should be just as good a place to live as Piltover.” Then, Jayce really thought so. He looked at Viktor and he wanted the next generations of children to live a better childhood. He looked at you and wished for all the women in the undercity to feel safe and not have to keep guns under the counter of their small workshops. What he didn't see was that it might not have been an issue with Zaun only, rather the exclusivity of Piltover.

“It doesn't matter, really.” The smile was back on your face. More pins poking out of a small pillow strapped onto your wrist. Precisely cut out pieces of fabric in your fingers as you approached him with a soft look on your face. “Stay still.”

Jayce watched as you pinned the back and the front of his shirt together. You worked over his shoulders, the front of his chest, his belly area. You were close, inspecting what would soon be seams, calculating where to put them to squeeze out all the handsomeness he had to offer.

“Look up.” You commanded, putting a finger under his chin to tilt it upwards. Yet, he still looked down as your fingers worked the collar around his neck.

If he would move his head back down Jayce could meet you halfway. It was tempting, he remembered that feeling very well. His fingers itched, hands laying useless on his knees. He wanted to put them around your waist, put his lips to yours. It would be wonderful. Jayce Talis knew he had a small crush on you, a sweet little nothing. Yet, he could change that. Undoubtedly, if he grabbed you here and now, kissed you and told you how pretty you looked when focusing, his crush wouldn't stay a little nothing. It would be hard to stop it if it started. You could do it, here in the workshop. Or he could take you back to his place.

Jayce saw a scar on your forehead, faint enough to go unnoticed unless you moved very close, like he was now. What happened? Did you fall while playing as a child? Did you hit your head in the cramped space that was your workshop? Did someone do this to you? Did Zaun happen?

It was just a goddamned mark on the hairline. You might as well have been born with it, but for some reason the past Jayce felt like this was the hill he would die on.

“A - are you done?” His eyes darted upwards. You caught him red handed as he stared at you and for some time, you also stared at him. Yet, his comment made you both back away.

You nodded, patting your sides, walking away to supposedly look at something in your sketchbook.

What was he thinking? Jayce was from Piltover, a promising inventor coming from a renowned branch of academia. He worked for his success so hard and just now he wanted to get entangled with a Zaun girl just because she came close to his face.

Jayce Talis forgot he had a crush on you, he forgot all the moments he admired your skill, humuor, and person. He scolded himself for thinking with the wrong part of his body.

You guided him to a tall mirror. It was dusty but when Jayce looked into it a handsome man stared back. The clothes on his body looked fantastic, it would only take a good pair of trousers and elegant shoes to make him look like one of the most important people of Piltover. In the back he saw you, breaking your fingers.

“It's perfect.” He said.

That night Jayce left with many regrets, balancing which ones were greater - the missed chance to kiss you or the fact that he nearly jeopardized his own career with a scandal.

He never ever anticipated that Viktor of all people would get interested in his love life. As they met at the academia, moments before entering the charity event, the partners talked.

“I see that you took my advice on a seamstress.” Viktor smiled softly as only he knew how. Both of their outfits, despite obvious differences, held similarities of design. Jayce nodded and wanted to add something but Viktor continued. “You know, I asked her here tonight. Did you bring a pair?”

The other man's eyes widened. Bringing a pair to the ball was not necessary but rather a social norm, unless one was looking for a fiance. Now the ton would think he is either awkward or open for marriage.

“Now this will look funny, me with a lady and you without one.”

It was tough to stay together, the amount of patrons looking for a conversation with the promising inventors overflowing. Jayce glowed between them, starving for the attention. The world was gold with dresses and clocks, tuxedos and flowers, expensive champagne and microscopic dishes. The moon bathed the open terrace with a silvery hue. It felt like hours and millions of polite conversations later when Jayce bumped into Viktor and you.

Of course your dress was perfect. It was hand sewn by you yourself. It hugged you in all the right places, bringing out your beauty. Tonight you didn't look like a girl from the undercity. Yet, there was something off. Like a chameleon you merged with the crowd but it only took a few steps closer to see something was wrong. It may have been the cheapness of the fabric that you crafted your dress from. Obviously you wouldn't have the money to buy equally soft and luxurious material as the one Jayce brought to your workshop days ago. Or your hair, too roughly cut for a Piltover lady. The fact that you looked a bit lost, clutching onto Viktor's arm as if he was a lighthouse amidst a storm. Maybe that's why people left you alone.

You asked for a moment so Viktor promised to wait for you. In the meantime he turned to Jayce.

“Busy night, isn't it?” He started, visibly tired, relying on his cane more and more.

“Yes.” Jayce nodded, whipping his head around to see if anyone else wished to talk to him.

“Can I ask you for a favor?” Viktor might have as well grown another head, from how surprised Jayce looked. “You see, I'm not much of a dancer as you could guess.” He tapped the tiled floor with his cane. “Would you mind taking her to the dancefloor, only once. I saw how she looked at the other pairs.”

Viktor wanted him to dance with you. Dance, keep you close while twirling around. Put a hand on your waist and look into your eyes. Lead you into the curious crowd. He was ready to say yes and a split second from running away from his friend. The thought of dancing with you didn't even cross his mind that was too occupied with the opulence of the night. Now, when Viktor planted the image, he couldn't stop his mind from running.

“Hello.” You greeted him politely, coming back from the ladies room. Jayce looked at you and nearly melted like the ice statue some person of doubtful intelligence thought of bringing tonight.

“So?” Viktor pushed, stepping closer, leaning into Jayce's ear so that only he would hear him. “She really likes you.”

There was hope in Viktor's eyes, hope for Jayce being smarter than stereotypes. As a Zaunian himself Viktor knew what it meant to get your strings cut when someone learned about your place of birth, how it felt to get judged solely on the basis of upper or undercity. That's why he hoped that Jayce could put aside such artificial prejudice. Unfortunately Viktor was wrong, it would take years for Jayce to understand his mistake.

“I should really get going, the patrons won't wait for me unless I catch them.” He smiled awkwardly nodding his head at you and turned in his heel to merge into the crowd.

“I see.” Viktor whispered, squeezing your palm just as disappointment squeezed his heart.

For the rest of the night Jayce Talis felt like suffocating. Nothing was the same, the conversations were off, the lights were too bright, the alcohol too light. He blamed it on the late hour, he must have been tired after spending the whole day running around the academia. He really didn't want to admit that what he felt was shame and guilt.

After the ball night Jayce only saw you amongst others. You merged with the background of what created Viktor’s person and stayed there. Only after spending days at the pit bottom of a ruined Piltover Jayce accepted his feelings. They never really died out, he pushed them down his throat forcefully and pretended you never existed. Then came his career that filled in the hole. Later came Mel - a trophy that made him swell with pride. Such a powerful woman chose him out of everyone. Maybe if he wasn't so handsome he would grow out smarter.

After coming back to Piltover Jayce wanted to close many chapters in his book, afraid that soon fate will most likely cut his story short. He wanted to make his wrongs right, to die with a consciousness even only slightly lighter than what he felt now. So he knew he had to find you, to tell you the truth.

It took him past the workshop, past the counter and down the stairs into the room once packed with fabric and sketchbooks. Now it was a ghost town. You most likely gave away everything that you had to aid the upcoming battle. Were you even here? You could as well take the hexgate to a better place, find a new workshop, get a new life, new friends and a new man, one that would be honest with you. Yet, something inside him told Jayce he would find you here, and he did.

Your head emerged from under one of the empty desks. You hid upon hearing someone descend the stairs, but you came out when you saw him. So still, after all these years the betrayed girl from Zaun trusted Jayce Talis.

“Jayce?”

It was a rhetorical question, nonetheless one very appropriate. He looked so different. His hair grew out, he had a beard and a sharp look on his features, nothing like the charismatic, warm inventor-boy. Carrying the hammer, heavy like his guilt, made Jayce bigger, more manly and sturdy, more closed and reserved.

“What are you doing here?” You asked.

“What are you doing here?” He might as well reverse the question. You should be long gone, not carry his mistakes and risk your life in this burning hole.

“I couldn't leave.” There was anger on your tired face. Jayce always knew what to say to sour your mood.

“Then I guess fate gave me another chance to make things clear.” He said more to himself than to you.

You did not understand his words. You did not understand when he came closer. You did not understand when he sank above you, the guilt and burden bringing his shoulders down.

“I'm sorry.”

Jayce said and kissed you, wishing for all that he meant to echo through his lips. It must have, because you put your palms on his cheeks and pushed into his chest showing that there was still one last person in all of the world who wanted him.

#arcane jayce #arcane s2 #arcane #jayce x reader #jayce talis #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce talis x you #jayce talis x y/n #jayce x

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p0ckykiss · 2 months ago

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i dream in the rain (it's you) - jeon jungkook

summary -> if jungkook is the sun, then you are the rain. and jungkook has always loved the rain, so dearly.

warnings -> female reader x jungkook, friends to lovers, pining god, jungkook just yearns, fluff

most of his memories of you are tied to the rain, one way or another.

the earliest of it that he remembers is when you were middle schoolers, the autumn downpour ruining his friends’ soccer game and, effectively, his lunch hour too. jungkook's friends all scatter to find cover, and he does the same, ending up in a direction none of them had gone to. he ends up next to you, too shy to sit on the bench with your dripping clothes, embarrassed at the ugly squelch your muddy shoes make. he simply puts his novel down and hands you a yellow handkerchief, telling you not to catch a cold. it doesn’t do much for your soaked hair, but you return it the next day—folded neatly, smelling of fabric softener—and he gets a smile from you.

jungkook remembers that day; he’d thought you had the prettiest eyes.

it’s raining the first time he sleeps over at your house, giddy when you crush him in a hug upon arrival. he doesn’t sleep much that night, the rain outside soothing as he lies awake, hyper-aware of your soft breathing next to him (of your pretty eyes, your pretty hands, your pretty everything).

by the next morning, he knows that there are three moons in the glow-in-the-dark galaxy of your bedroom ceiling, and that you mumble in your sleep.

it’s raining when jungkook stumbles into a convenience store in tenth grade, cursing at the sky. he loiters in the aisles, not really planning on making a purchase, until he comes face to face with you near the assortment of drinks. he gets steered straight to the little table by the window, you running off with an endearing 'I will buy you something, wait!’, leaving him to watch the raindrops’ race along the glass. you bought him strawberry milk and an umbrella.

(jungkook walks you home that day as a thank you, heat coloring his face when you bump shoulders, huddled close beneath see-through plastic.)

when you leave for university, jungkook catches himself yearning for you every time the skies are a little grey. he finds his heart aches whenever he pulls out the umbrella, his shoulder strangely lonely.

and when you try to teach him piano over the break—fingers over his and your smile gentle as he plays a piece you wrote in your dorm room—spring rainfall pitter-patters against the windowsill as if singing along. jungkook doodles hearts on your notebook when you aren't looking. jungkook finds his stomach twists painfully at how your cheeks redden and how your eyes glimmer when you talk about your new roommate jake. he crosses the hearts out, and squishes your cheeks in his hands—it hides the rose flush, but the warmth of it burns against jungkook's palms, and the shrill annoyance of your yell sears readily at his heart.

it is storming terribly when you call him one night, hesitant and shaky-voiced, to break the news of a bruised heart. jungkook knows neither you nor jake are at fault—but he knows how it hurts. he wishes he could be right at your side, thumbing away your tears and kissing your head, cuddling the pain away. instead, he puts aside his assignment and video-calls you from his own dorm room, cities away. and through the pixelated display and delayed sound, he knows he’s made you laugh.

if he weren’t a mere mortal with questionable caffeine levels in his blood, he’d brave a thousand storms to hear the sound again.

there is no umbrella when jungkook finds a mirror in you, sees his heart’s affections reflected in how your eyes soften when they meet his own. the summer sky falls on you both in timid drizzles, and you stand in the open while people around you hasten to get out of the rain.

“what?”

you bite your lip, and it pinkens in a way that has jungkook's heart in knots so dangerous. your shoulders sag a bit when you repeat, unsurely, “i said, i think i love you.” you look frightened to say it, look like you wish you hadn’t. “i think i always have, maybe.”

jungkook takes your hand before you can curl in on yourself too much. he looks you in the eye when he professes, “you know i love you too, right? just as much, just as… similarly.”

he knows you know, with the way you look apologetic at that. with how your mouth purses, your frown feigning confidence, right before you ask, “did i realise too late?”

jungkook grins, tugging you close. rain droplets have caught along your eyelashes, sparkling across your gaze like the constellations on the ceiling of his childhood bedroom. jungkook brushes away the soaked strands that stick to your forehead, makes room for a spot to land a kiss against. “never too late, not with me.”

you go that specific blush pink that he’d once loathed, curling into jungkook, face against his collar, arms around his waist, grumbling something about i love you, i love you, i love you.

jungkook laughs, and you really do look like fools, drenched to the bone, embracing in the rain. “well, i’ve never stopped loving you.”

because you are the rain to his shine, and he’s always loved the rain. and despite what one may think, loving the rain isn’t so bad after all—not when it lets the sun shine through it, merging into the prettiest colors of love.

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jjackdawed · 4 months ago

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The Jade Winglet

you are welcome to use my designs as long as you credit me :)

design notes:

Moon is a dark almost greenish black color, and has a silver almost diamond shape on her nose and chest. Hatching under two full moons, she has a teardrop on the back corners of her eyes as a mark of her mind reading abilities, and a smaller front teardrop as a mark of a seer. She is remarkably large for her age, a trait she got from her father, but is still one of the smaller members of her winglet.

Not much about Winter's design. He is stocky, has clusters of darker scales on his face, a darker nose, and is remarkably shiny even by IceWing standards. He continues to wear the earring from Qibli, claiming he doesn't trust Darkstalker's magic to be entirely gone without it, when in reality he secretly likes the connection to Qibli and his winglet.

Peril is very large for a SkyWing, and is the tallest of the winglet. Shes very muscular and her scales are abnormally bright and shiny in comparison to the other tribes. She is almost iredescent in the sun and practically glows. She has VERY large, unblinking eyes that are a startling shade of blue (an eye color already uncommon in the Sky Kingdom) and is known for intensely staring people down without meaning to do so. Despite being firescales she is covered in small scars from brief nicks in battle before her opponents perished.

Turtle is very short and stocky in build, and is the shortest of the winglet as he carries himself very low to the ground. Hes very freckled and alongside the golden armband he wears gold stud earrings. His horns are twisted and almost silvery, a trait he shares with every animus dragon. He bares a striking resemblance to his ancestor Fathom, however he is shorter and stockier than he was.

Qibli is lanky and awkward in appearance, with long legs and a thin, gangly body. He is unkempt in appearence, with crooked teeth and freckles and scars covering his body from his rough up bringing in The Scorpion Den (the scar from Cobra being the two slashes on the front of his nose) and is surprisingly tall, taller even than Winter, but because of their differences in posture (Winter's being perfect to a T and making himself appear much larger than he is and Qibli's being nonexistent) he appears much smaller than he really is. Like all SandWing’s, he has a darker patch under his eyes to help with seeing in intense sunlight.

Umber looks very similar to Clay in appearance, with hazel eyes and warm scales. Unlike Clay, Umber is significantly smaller and thinner in frame and is covered in large freckles. He has a lighter patch on his chest, his ears are long and hang down, he has a long scar on his snout and neck, and his right horn has a blunted tip from the battles he fought in the war.

Like Umber Carnelian shares many scars from the battles she fought in the war, most notably being the chunk missing from her left ear and the several long slashes across her face. I like to think that had Carnelian lived longer and Umber remained in the winglet the two of them would’ve become close friends, and eventually Carnelian would’ve become protective of the other dragonets in her winglet.

I struggled getting Kinkajou’s colors right; i wanted to make her bright and include her iconic pink/yellow scales, but i wanted to make her less neon and have more believable tones down hues. I also wanted to include some orange and reds to show her more fiery side.

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wis-art · 2 years ago

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he/they

#trans #transmasc #his name is cryptid #doodle #sketch #art #my art #trans masc art #the sky has gone yellow #digital art #i just haven't drawn him in a while #and i like him a lot #oc #my oc #yeah well he has a jacket #but why wouldnt he wanna show off his chest like that

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eowynstwin · 5 months ago

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the rain / neighbors

On a cold winter's day in the early morning hours, you knock on your neighbor Captain John Price's door to make a noise complaint. - Your thighs are taut and sensitive as a yearling’s flank, ready to twitch at the barest whisper of breath. - ao3

The moment you ’re home, I’ll give you everything you want.

There’s a dangerous cast to the sky—dark, heavy, near-splitting at the seams. It’s not a night to have rejected a ride home from the station, not with those words ringing in your ears.

But when the ride was your ex, you’d rather risk getting caught in the downpour.

The pavement is hard and cold beneath your tired feet. Your whole body is sore from the long train ride home, spent stiffly across from Ben as you’d avoided his gaze, but you’d walk twice the distance home to even halve the time you’d spent with him. His sad eyes and kicked-puppy stare had been stuck to you the whole time, as if magnetized, and they weigh on you now as heavy as the suitcase you drag behind you.

This trip was a mistake. You should not have gone anywhere with Ben, professionally or otherwise. Not with how weird the energy has been between you and him, ever since you broke it off.

“Can’t you just try to be happy with me?” he’d asked you then. “I’m a good partner, aren’t I? I just want to make you happy, sweets, and it’s like you won’t even let me.”

Objectively, Ben had been the boyfriend everyone seemed to want when they talked about romance—interested and engaged, excited about a future together, sensitive and willing to talk about his feelings. He even knew where the clitoris was. There was nothing—no red flags, no warning signs—that should have scared you off.

It was just you. There was something wrong with you, because none of that made you happy—not the lunch dates, not the weekly flowers, and not even the sex. All you knew was that when he started wondering when you would introduce him to your parents, ice had run down your spine.

A bad gust of wind slaps you from behind, followed by a crack of thunder, too close for you to make it home dry. Indeed, there isn’t much time after finishing that thought before the deluge unloads, raindrops falling heavy and cold and fat as bullets.

You come to a resigned stop in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your face up to the sky. There’s no point in rushing now—thick, late-winter clouds spread low across Liverpool, slow-moving. By all appearances intending to linger as long as possible. You’d neglected an umbrella, and your coat is nowhere near waterproof. You think of the warm interior of Ben’s car and shiver.

You want John.

You struggle to understand it. He is nothing like what you’d assign yourself for a match—there is a wide gulf of difference between you and him, too wide for you to ever expect an easy crossing. He and you should feel disjointed, incongruous, as ill-suited as a war horse might be to a hummingbird. There shouldn’t be anything you could offer each other that either would have use for.

And yet, you do. It is easy. Breathable, in a way that feels unearned enough to make you nervous.

How are you supposed to navigate something that shouldn’t be working, but is anyway? How can something feel this good with barely any effort on your part? How can you go through with this, when you’re not even sure what it means?

The rain reaches its fingers down into your collar, pools around your feet. You close your eyes and try to hear John’s voice in your head again. Soft and low over the phone, coaxing. Inviting your fears out into the open to be soothed.

You’re walking again before you realize it—one cold foot in front of the other, heavy suitcase clattering behind you, familiar with the way home even through the sheeting rain. And what feels like mere moments later, you’re walking up the steps to his front door.

The window beside it glows a soft yellow around the edges. You can’t help but stand there, frozen again as this suddenly becomes real. John, and everything he’s offered you, is on the other side of the door. All you have to do is take it. All you have to do is knock.

But John opens the door before you can even lift your hand.

“Jesus, love,” he says, the moment he looks at you.

Time slows. Warmth pours from the open portal. He looks… comfortable. Soft around the edges in blue jeans and a knitted sweater—the same one he’d worn to dinner at the pub. You hadn’t realized how much you missed him, even in the few days you’d been gone, but once your eyes land on his you don’t want to look away. The angle of his brow; the shape of his mouth beneath his old-fashioned mustache. Looking at him is like looking at your bed at the end of a long day.

“Hi, John,” you reply, smiling apologetically.

“Come on, get inside!” he exclaims, hurrying you in as thunder claps behind you.

In his flat, the lights are low. As you stand dripping on his entry, you take in an arrangement of somewhat retro furniture and sparsely decorated walls. It’s utilitarian in a way that probably isn’t meant to be; spare of anything particularly homey because the inhabitant just doesn’t have time to pay attention to it. You’ve never actually been inside before. It’s very much like John himself; tidy but old-fashioned, practical, hiding absolutely nothing.

You don’t think the candles, though, sitting on a few end tables and shelves and glowing soft gold, are his standard decor. Nor is the crystal bottle of liquor languishing in an ice bucket at the center of a small coffee table, attended by two whiskey glasses off to the side.

“When you said you were on your way I didn’t think you’d be walking,” he says, taking your luggage and setting it aside. “Why didn’t you ask me to come get you? I have a car, would’ve been happy to drive you.”

“I—” and you laugh a little nervously, magnetized to the concerned slant of his brow, “I didn’t know you had a car.”

You’re not sure you would’ve asked him for a lift even if you had known.

He draws close, so close his warmth cuts through the chill of your wet clothes, his gaze moving across you like he’s drinking you in. He cups your face lightly with one hand, thumb tracing a gentle line across your cheek. The expression on his face is almost too tender for you to bear.

“You’re here now,” he murmurs.

There’s a tremble working its way through your chest. You feel desperately seen again, recognized in a way no one ever has before. “I’m a mess, I—maybe I should go and change, come back…”

“No,” he purrs, taking your chin between thumb and forefinger. “You’re stayin’ right here.” And quite easily, John kisses you for the first time.

His mouth is warm along yours. His free hand hooks your waist, pulls you closer as he moves to cup the back of your neck. You’re so surprised you don’t react for a moment, but that doesn’t deter him; he just coaxes you into responding, sipping at your lips, teasing at the seam with the tip of his tongue.

It throws you off balance. He kisses you as if he’s known all along how to do it; as if he’s studied you, all of those mornings, noting the way your lips touch the rim of your coffee mug and the way you look up at him when he talks to you. Calculating the angles, the ways your mouths could fit together.

He shifts, angling to kiss you deeper. A wave of vertigo threatens to overtake you—your hands fly to his chest, which is broad beneath your fingers. You dig them into the cable of his sweater, a little whine escaping you, and John huffs a laugh against your mouth before greeting your tongue with his.

You have never felt as small as you do now in John Price’s hands, at the mercy of the way he holds you—like he’s planning to keep you in place until he’s finished with you.

When he finally pulls away, you have the opportunity to take a deep gasp as he chuckles again. He thumbs your bottom lip, almost playfully.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “Wanted to do that the minute you walked into the pub that night.” You don’t have time to reckon with this confession—if you can even call it that, because once he says it you realize you’ve known the whole time—before he continues. “Come on, you must be freezing. Let’s get you warmed up.”

John helps you out of your coat, unwrapping you like peeling away a chrysalis. It exposes the thin, damp fabric of your dress to the warm air—and to his gaze—and you can’t help but feel suddenly naked in front of him. He’s revealed nothing that he hasn’t seen before, but irrationally, you want to cover your chest, or cross your arms over your stomach. Shield the most vulnerable parts of you from consumption.

John takes your hands in his and pulls you to an armchair—a comfortable, plush thing with a low back. He backs you into it so that your knees buckle, and you sit, looking up at him as he stands over you.

“First order of business,” he says.

He turns away from you to lift the decanter from the bucket, and pours a finger of liquor into a glass. You try to pretend your heart isn’t thrumming, like a bird’s beating wings behind your ribcage, as he turns back and holds out the drink, long fingers dwarfing the rim.

“As promised,” he purrs, “Balvenie.”

You accept it the glass; the scotch sparkles, amber-rich and glittering gold where the low candlelight catches it.

“It looks good,” you say, looking up at him.

There’s a pleased look on his face. “Give us a taste, then.”

Heat blooms across your face, spreads down your chest. You bring the rim of the glass to your lips immediately, still held by his gaze—

Smoke blooms across your tongue, heavy and soft, pricked with notes of honey and vanilla. You roll the scotch in your mouth, close your eyes as its warmth slides along your tongue, pressing it up into your soft palate, citrus appearing in a sudden, tangy splash. You let the drink flow into your throat and feel the smoke fill your head as you swallow.

You open your eyes and look up at John. “That’s really good.”

It shouldn’t surprise you, really, but it does: John bends over you, takes your chin in his hand, and kisses you again, dipping his tongue into your mouth as if searching for leftover drops of liquor. Your head swims; warmth suffuses you, waking up the nerves along the back of your neck. The hair on your arms stands on end as the world narrows to John’s mouth on yours and nothing else, the wet heat of his tongue, the prickle of his beard against your skin. It’s slow and molasses-sweet, rich and decadent. Thunder rumbles, far away.

“Mm. It is,” he says when he pulls away. Another brief kiss—like he can’t get enough of it, like he’s been saving up every moment he hasn’t kissed you, and is spending all of his chances now. “Promise me you’ll never drink Walker again.”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, taking an unsteady breath.

The ends of his beard move against your face in a smile. “Enjoy that. I’ll be right back.”

He straightens, and steps away. The tug of his gravity is so strong that you list forward, toward him, until he leaves your orbit.

You look around his apartment again, helpless, as if to find some sort of anchor that isn’t John Price—he’s going to get you drunk on his presence alone faster than the liquor ever could. You catch sight of a bookshelf, sparsely populated with a short line of books; as you stare at them, trying to figure out what they are, you realize with a start that they’re all brand-new copies of what you’ve lent him.

Actium. Nafisi. Da Vinci. McMurtry. They’re all here. The textual foundation of your relationship aligned in a tidy, even row. Living here, in the center of his home.

You take another nervous sip of scotch.

John returns with a stack of clean towels, unfurls one, and drapes it over your head. But before you can tend to your hair yourself, he lays his big hands overtop of the terrycloth, pressing down into your scalp.

Your breath leaves you in a rush, depressurizing your lungs. Pure sensation dances up your spinal cord, suffusing the space between your ears, as he kneads with an even, firm pressure, massaging the water from your hair. Your eyes slide shut of their own accord. Your mouth drops open as he digs his fingers into the tense nerves down the back of your head.

The little sound that escapes the pit of your throat is utterly involuntary.

John huffs a chuckle. “That good, then?”

“Uh-huh,” you hear yourself mumble again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, obscured by smoke, you think you should feel embarrassed, ashamed of how naked your pleasure must be. But John gives you no time to ruminate.

He tilts your face upward and presses his lips to your forehead, down the bridge of your nose, gentle, soft, to your mouth. Your mouth, over and over again, as calloused thumbs caress your temples.

It’s a gentle way of taking control. You have no need to reach out with unsure hands, or stumble your way through half-desires with no time to think about them. John has seen into you, divined your quietest, sincerest needs, and feeds them back to you now like he’s only been waiting for your go-ahead to do so.

The bird in your ribcage flutters nervously. Is this really alright? Should you be letting it happen like this? Shouldn’t you be…participating, somehow, in this, other than to take what he gives you?

“John,” you start, but you have no idea what you want to say to him. “Shouldn’t I…shouldn’t—”

“Shh,” he says. “You should let me take care of you.”

John squeezes your hair one more time, then sets the damp towel aside. With an expression you can only describe as beatific, he smooths errant strands of hair away from your face, and then lowers to his knees in front of you. He touches your ankles; nods toward the glass of scotch encircled by your nervous hands. “Don’t stop on my account.”

You hold his gaze, and take a sip. The satisfaction on his face is almost too much to bear.

“Good girl,” he says. He lifts the heel of your shoe onto his thigh, smoothing his hand up and down your shin. “You’re doing such a good job, letting me do this.”

He takes your shoes off as tenderly as he’d removed your jacket, tucking away the laces and setting them off to the side. With warm hands, he rolls your wet knee-high socks down your legs, exposing your chilled calves to his palms. After he folds them and places them by your shoes, his mouth and the warm scratch of his beard meet the top of one foot…move up your instep, and to the inside of your ankle, then to your shin…up your calf…to your knee—

“Is this—” you begin, and have to swallow the trembles in your voice, “what you talked about on the phone?”

“Mm-hm,” he hums, kneading your other calf as he urges your legs to open for him.

Your breath is shallow in your lungs—as if any one too deep might startle John away from his quarry, convince him you’re not aching for this. John kisses inward along the inside of one thigh, keeping the other open with his kneading hand. The flesh molds like clay to his touch, extruding between the gaps of his fingers. He makes an appreciative sound, a hum, as he slides his hands further upward and under the damp hem of your dress, cresting the angles of your hips. Inexplicably, you go tight, anticipatory, like the skin of a grape exposed to a knife.

It isn’t like you haven’t been here before. Your sex life with Ben had been—while not particularly active—not nonexistent. And yet this feels new anyway; as if John is sweeping dust off a body long left unused. Your thighs are taut and sensitive as a yearling’s flank, ready to twitch at the barest whisper of breath.

But isn’t this new, after all? No one, not Ben or anyone else who’s ever touched you, has made you feel this way.

“Lift your hips, darlin’,” John rumbles, and for the first time you catch a hint of scouse in his accent—low, slung around his words and leaving off the hard edges. Like a vein of gold unearthed. “Bring ‘er closer to me.”

Heat blazes across your face. There’s a small end table beside the armchair; you take one more pull from your scotch glass and set your drink aside. Then you shift, edging your hips forward, tilting your pelvis—angling your pussy toward John’s face.

He kisses the crease of your thigh and groin. “That’s a girl,” he purrs, and then presses the bottom half of his face directly into your underwear, opening his mouth over the wet fabric and inhaling deeply. The panties are nothing fancy, simple cotton with a floral pattern, but his eyes slide shut in what you can only describe as ecstasy.

“It’s like you’re getting as much out of this as I am,” you say, trying to laugh, to make this feel like less than it is if only for the sake of your nerves.

“I am,” he says, rough around the edges, and pulls at the gusset of your underwear with his teeth. “I’ve thought about this every morning—” he runs the flat of his tongue along the outer seam, touching bare skin “—and every evening—” edging his fingertips into the leg hole at the top of your hip “—since I met you.”

“You barely knew me,” you whisper, trembling.

“I knew enough,” he says, lifting his face to meet your eyes—his pupils are blown wide, encased in a thin rind of blue. Delicately he takes the waistband of your panties between his fingers, eases it down. “Knew you were a good girl, who wouldn’t even fuss at mean old bastard for waking her up. Wanted to eat your cunt to apologize.”

Something flushed and hot radiates from your core, molten and liquid. “Every time you call me that I—I don’t know what to do, John, I feel…”

“Good,” he says. “Lift your hips again.”

You obey. You think you’d do practically anything, if he told you to in that voice, rough and commanding like far-away thunder. John peels your underwear from your hips, dragging it down over the swell of your bottom, closing your legs to pull them down and—you swallow—shoving them in his pocket when they’re off. Then, like opening the shutters of a window, he parts your legs again, and slots his face between them.

The first thing that strikes you is how hot his mouth. He eases a molten tongue into your folds and you watch his eyes slide shut, feel the soft groan he gives vibrate against your flesh. Your body heat blooms, sight going liquid around the edges—or maybe your temperature is just rising to meet John’s own, thermoregulating to avoid meltdown as he stokes a fire between your legs. Hot breath meets you as he opens his mouth, gets as much tender flesh between his lips as he can.

He’s slow. Exploratory. He tongues your pussy luxuriantly, indulgently, as he loops his arms under your legs to hook them over his broad shoulders, thick forearms dark with hair snaking overtop of your thighs. Holding you in place as he eats— savors . He maps your topography, delving and cresting the landscape like trying to discover every significant landmark, and finds a spot on your clitoris that makes your thighs seize up and your hips jerk under his mouth. He chuckles low against you, playfully flits his tongue across it at what you’d swear is the same rapid pulse of your heartbeat.

You look at him between your legs. The curls of his dark lashes are pretty against the pale hue of his skin, freckled with sun exposure. Fever pink spreads across his cheeks as his brow furrows in the middle, creasing as he laps at the beads of moisture pearling up from your entrance. You watch him, mouth hanging open to allow your shallow breaths to flow free—and he opens his eyes, sharp blue, meeting your gaze.

A sound escapes you, raw, rough in the back of your throat. He smiles, drags the flat of his tongue up your folds as if to show off, and strokes along the sensitive border of your mons and lower stomach with the rough callus of his thumb.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, love.” He kisses your mound and then takes your pussy, soft and slow, back into his mouth.

There’s a trembling behind your sternum. Something in you breaks open—seeps cloying and honey-gold—into your bloodstream. Your head lolls back as his tongue slips deeper into you, stoking pleasure, your old friend, your old enemy, like turning embers out of ashes. Your thighs relax over the ballast of his shoulders. They’re broad enough that even as your legs fall further open, they don’t slip off.

It’s like your body and his are dovetail joints cut long ago, yet still now slide easily into place. Your heels rest comfortably on the expanse of his back with plenty of room left over; his big hands, as they spread wide across your stomach, fit along its curves and dips like rain sliding along soft green leaves.

It soaks you to the bone, warm and deep into your marrow, filling your veins and blotting the spaces between your alveoli until John, John, John is on every breath.

You must be saying his name aloud, because John’s grip tightens around you. The flint-strike of his tongue against your clitoris, lightning-sharp, catalyzes the pleasure in your bloodstream into a tight, unfamiliar gnarl. You gasp hard, almost painfully—how long has your body been able to feel like this, somewhere beyond your reach?

Has this pleasure always lived at the end of John’s tongue, along the contours of his hands, draped over his body like a mantle?

(How can something like this be a fair exchange for books and clumsy conversation?)

Your hand flies to John’s hair as it grows—a trembling feeling that touches places inside of you that you’ve always been dimly aware of, but never have given much thought to. It loosens you at the seams, grinds the fault lines inside of you together, dislodges your inhibitions from their foundation.

“John, please,” you whimper, brows drawn together, “please, please—”

He growls against you. Grinds through your center and then sucks your folds into his mouth, grazing the hood of your clit with the edge of his teeth, teasing your entrance with the tip of his tongue—

Suddenly, it overtakes you.

Flying sparks finally catch along aching tinder. A single point of furtive, glowing heat blooms between your legs, unassuming except for that you’ve never felt it before. It only sits briefly in your folds before bursting outward, seizing every nerve ending in the immediate vicinity, blazing bright like fire spreads over paper. Then you tighten around nothing, the inside of you desperately grasping something that isn’t there, body snapping taut as you arch from the backrest, mouth hanging open as a sharp gasp dies in your throat. Sensation consumes everything. Your vision darkens; the air stills in your lungs.

The only thing spared is the heat of John’s mouth, the cords of his arms around your thighs, and the ballast of his shoulders hooked in the bend of your knees—he keeps you anchored, held together as you try to fly apart. The caress of his hands and fingers across your lower belly does not stop as his mouth continues moving over your cunt, moves until your whole body is shaking, moves as you finally gasp for air and cry out in overstimulation.

You collapse back into the chair, pushing now against John’s head even though you’re not sure you want him to stop. He resists—kissing your pussy, once, twice, three times as you come down—and then takes a wrist in one big hand and kisses your palm.

“That,” John rasps, “is a fucking climax, love.”

You swallow, throat dry and smoke-rough. Even in the aftershocks, the pleasure lingers, and you squeeze your inner muscles to hold onto it for as long as you can.

It doesn’t escape his notice. Of course it doesn’t. John’s fingers trek inward, gathering some of the wet slick between your folds and then lazily circling your clitoris.

“Look at you,” he rasps, “my poor girl needs more, doesn’t she?”

Ecstasy grips you again; you whimper as he manipulates your flesh. “John…”

“How long you been aching for it, love? Years? How long’ve you needed me, and I ain’t been there, mm?” He kisses the soft part of your lower belly. “You don’t need to worry anymore. I’m here now.”

You angle your head to look at him, running your dry tongue along your lips. What you see on his face steals the meager oxygen you’ve managed to pull in since your climax abated.

His face is flushed. Lips rosy and swollen from their work. The blue of his eyes has been eclipsed almost completely by black singularity—inescapable, unfathomable, a depth more vast than comprehension. Ready to swallow you whole.

This whole time, you’ve been afraid of John’s touch the way you are afraid of a hot bath on a cold night. There is a comfort beyond the first step into the water, languorous ecstasy waiting only for you to claim it, but the toll separating it and you—the shock of first contact, the split second of violent adjustment, makes you nearly content to remain in uncomfortable but familiar dissatisfaction.

Thunder cracks outside as you reach for him, as he reads your mind and surges forward to kiss you, hand catching the back of your neck to reel your mouth to his. You kiss each other hard and fast, over and over again, eager to end each one only so you can start the next.

Nearly content, in the end, is not content at all.

“John,” you murmur against his lips, as his hand still works your cunt, “I’m still cold.”

#john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #price x reader #price x you #call of duty fanfic #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #cod smut #mw2 smut #neighbors au #madi writes #mwritesprice

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birrdies · 6 months ago

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'SUNBLEACHED' (1.6k words) Our collaboration piece for the Flowers in the Desert zine! writing by me (birrdies) art by @fishbloc

Sunflowers.

Over the flat, endless plain they stretch as far as Scar can see. Roots and leaves branch like veins and arteries through the soil on the verge of something alive. The sunflowers face the limitless blue above— no beginning or end— the stretch so vast that time itself feels as inconsequential as a marble rolling around in his hand.

Scar doesn’t understand it.

One second his feet had been on the stone where Pearl had fallen, where lightning had struck with finality, and the next he’s up to his waist in sunflowers. Each golden petal stands on edge. As if they know something he doesn’t. He reaches out to touch one of these petals; they tickle the pads of his fingers. Shy, pretty things.

It’s quiet here and Scar isn’t sure if it’s a silence he finds comforting or damning. He thinks he should be afraid, but how can he be? It’s warm here. The earth smells of freshly fallen rain beneath his feet, despite not a single cloud in the sky above. The fresh, dewey scent that soothes him, almost convinces him that this is a good place to be.

“You’re here,” a voice says behind him.

There, enveloped by the countless sunflowers, is Grian. His hair is pale, sunbleached, and his cheeks are pink. Everything about him has been touched by the light in some way, down to the faded red poncho draping his shoulders and the speckling of freckles across his nose bridge.

He’s drowning in it— this light. He’s made of it. And Scar’s eyes fall to find the sunflowers around him withering and decaying quickly. The yellow petals curl and desiccate into gray husks, breaking off their buds and fluttering to the ground. They’re dying. Not by lack of sunlight, Scar realizes, but by an excess of it. Burnt to a crisp.

And like the sun, his skin blisters. The skin of his hands and the redness slathering them have no beginning or end. Gashes and swelling bruises and split knuckles. The blood never clots, a constant red drip falling from the fingers held limp at his sides. A quiet drip, drip, drip the only sound across the windless field. Not even so much as the sound of a breath. Just that blood. “Grian,” Scar says. “I’m here.”

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why Grian’s here either. But he’s grateful he is. Their nightmare— or, had it been a dream?— ended long ago, the desert gone and buried several games past. The Grian in front of him now isn’t the Grian he’d fought with moments ago. This Grian was younger. More afraid. More capable of burning.

“Where… where is here, exactly?” Scar asks.

Grian curls those bleeding fingers into the nearest living sunflower. As if he’s unsure whether he wants to caress it or yank it from the ground, roots and all. His face is twisted, it’s always twisted when Scar’s around. But he yearns for the days when that twist had been of wicked delight, the way green-lit eyes exploded into starbursts at the sight of their mutual destruction.

“You won,” Grian says simply, taking a sunflower by the stem and starting to pluck the petals. One by one. “Congratulations.”

Scar falters. A victory. A bolt of lightning striking the earth, the loud thud of a gavel. It’s over Scar, he hears, a constant echo in the back of his mind. You won. Grian’s anger burns. A second petal falls. “You’re upset.” Scar will do anything to make it stop, to untie the knot tied between Grian’s eyebrows, to take those cracked, bleeding hands in his own and mend them until the skin is whole again. To take away the pain, the regret, the guilt.

Grian never left the desert, no matter how much he wanted to. And Scar could never go back. No matter how often he wished he could.

“This is your dream, Scar.” Grian turns his face away. “It’s been a long time coming— a victory.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve won anything,” Scar says honestly. A victory implies the heavy yet welcome weight of a crown, the fleeting yet intoxicating rush of excitement. But all Scar feels is the emptiness in his chest, the air around his crownless head. Blood on his hands that he can’t see, but knows is there all the same. The same way it stains Grian’s.

Grian plucks a third petal. He barks a cruel laugh, but it sounds more like he’s about to cry. “How do you think I felt?” Scar frowns. “It’s still about the desert? After all this time?”

Grian plucks another petal. Four. It flutters to the ground to join the others, yellow petals torn and crumpled, slowly turning gray. The edge of his mouth tugs into a knife-like smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s all he can manage, though he doesn’t mean it. Nothing can make him regret that day, knelt in a cool pond with the weight of a diamond blade against the junction of his neck. The hand he used to hold onto it, digging it into his own skin— asking for it. “You deserved to win.”

“I deserved this? To be alone?” Grian throws his arms out to the sides, to the endless curvature of sunflowers drowning the both of them. Nothing to shield them from the unrelenting sun above. “Because that’s what winning means. You’re alone, Scar.”

Scar’s heart plummets into his stomach. “You’re here.”

“Am I?” A fifth petal. “Or do you just want me to be?”

Scar stares at Grian, uncaring if the scalding brightness gives him sunspots, or if the pain of looking at the spoils of his own choices burns him up from the inside. You won, Scar, his voice echoes again and again in Scar’s mind, a scratched record. His fists curl up at his sides, into the black cloak sewn with lilacs and poppies along the hem.

Is that what this is? A cruel illusion to make him realize what it truly means to be the man at the edge of the world, to be the last man standing? If this is victory— Scar grits his teeth and twists his fists into his cloak— then he doesn’t want it. He’s never wanted it. It was never about winning, it was about—

“About what, exactly?” Grian snaps, plucking the through straight from his mind just as he does with a sixth petal. “Is it about this? Sunflowers? You can’t hide behind them forever. Not here. Not from me. Not from yourself.”

“Stop it.”

Grian’s in front of him now, bloodied hands shoving him by his shoulders. Scar stumbles back and barely keeps himself upright. This isn’t right. This isn’t Grian— not the one he knows, not the one he needs.

“Why aren’t you angry, Scar?” Another push. “After everything that’s happened to you. All the people that have betrayed you. All the times I left you behind.”

Scar grapples for self control, to reign in the flash of anger burning the back of his throat. “What are you trying to prove?”

“Stop lying. For once in your life, look me in the eye and tell me you’re angry.” Grian yanks a sunflower from the ground and shoves it, decaying leaves and all, against Scar’s chest. “Tell me these are just a sham.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue: the truth. A terrifying, bitter thing that burns crawling up the back of his throat. Because it betrays everything he’s worked so hard to build, the masks he’s sported like second skins, the confidence which he flaunts like a shield. Without it, what does he have left? He’s stripped clean, Grier’s hands against his chest burning like sweltering charcoal. Sunflower petals slip between his fingers.

He opens his mouth to let it up, to tell the truth, and then—

The sky above him changes. Only slightly. If he had blinked he would’ve missed it. But clear as day he sees them overhead: clouds. Slowly rolling across a blue sky. And he’s on his back, blinking spots from his eyes as breath rushes into his lungs. The air tastes fresh, crisp, like seawater. Eyes fluttering, he tries to remember what he’d just been about to say. “Scar?”

Eclipsing the sun beating down on him overhead, a head peers down at him. Dark, wide eyes, a slanted mouth. A sporting of freckles across dusty cheeks.

Something knotted unravels in Scar’s chest. “Grian.” Grian’s lips wobble into an uneasy smile. He wipes sweat from his brow, and Scar catches a glimpse of his hands: dirty, packed with mud, but bloodless. “Whatcha doing down there, pal?” Scar’s arms lie limp at his sides. He’s not sure he could move even if he tried. If he wanted to. Something about this peace is fragile, uncertain. As if simply breathing the wrong way will make the world shatter in two and send him back to that place. One wrong move and he’ll be alone again.

“Dunno,” Scar says breathlessly. Stalks of wheat tickle his arms as the wind kicks up, ghosting over his body. A sunflower stands over him, waving in the breeze. “Appreciating the view. Clouds. They’re nice.”

“Come on.” A hand reaches out to him. “Stop trampling my wheat.” Scar has to stare at it to remember that it’s not covered in blood. That it’s just dirt from a long day tending to wheat and sunflowers. That the Grian smiling down at him is the real one. Not the one made to torment him.

Scar reaches for that hand, allowing their palms to slot together. Grian’s skin is callused and warm. He’s there. He’s real. Scar isn’t alone.

#birdie-writes #it was an HONOR to work with yu on this!!#collaborating was a ton of fun and I'd love to do it again sometime!!#and big thanks to the people in the zine for putting up with my angsty ass #fishbloc #desert duo #desert duo fic #secret life #secret life fic #goodtimeswithscar #gtws #grian #desert duo angst #desert duo fanart

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fishnapple · 6 months ago

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How to love yourself better? A request letter from yourself. (Channelled message)

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost

Book a reading with me - KO-FI (Read this post : personal reading)

1. White

Dear myself,

If I could light a fire right now, I could, just to see if that fire can compete with my light, our light. And yet I got a feeling that fire will burn brighter than us, just because it had someone to start it. But ours didn't. We stowed our fire away, our light, for fear of burning the eyes of the world? Or for fear of being engulfed in the sea of darkness outside?

Have you ever seen a solar eclipse? People gathered to watch it, a brief moment of the sun being eaten. A brief moment. Imagine how the world would be if that brief moment turned into a very long moment, an eternal one? Panic, fear, despair. We have prolonged our solar eclipse for far too long, let the Sun has its shine. Does it sound arrogant when I talk of us as the Sun? No, you should get used to it. To be the light, the be seen. Even when the Sun seems like a solitary existence on the sky, it's not, so are we.

I wanted to tell you many beautiful words, give you praises and a pat on the head. Sounds embarrassing, right? We should learn to do that more often. And then practice it with other people too, we all need it sometimes, a lot of times.

Do you know what will happen when we turn the anger on ourselves? Somehow, it will ricochet inside us and finally shoot out at other people. It's painful, for us and for them. Let's hold it in our hands, watch it breathe and stroke it gently, find where does it hurt and tend to it, then poof- it's gone. You catch anger not by throwing it around and putting it in a cage but let it heal and fly away on its own.

I'm sure that sometimes you will find yourself drowning in life, in other people's water. Losing yourself could be your worst nightmare. But you will never lose me. It's odd how we're surrounded by people but feel like we are alone in our struggle. Where did all the people go? Are they also drowning like us? In a different sea? I hope that all the seas are connected to each other so we can all find others to swim with us.

Till the next sun rise, yourself.

2. Pink

Oh, how I want to just throw away everything and run barefoot on the sand. To lie face up, watching the clouds passing by for hours. To paint the wall bright pink and yellow (this combination might hurt your eyes if you stare too long, though). But we're not a kid anymore, or so people have told us, much like how we've told ourselves, convinced ourselves to behave.

It's fascinating to watch the process of our resistance to what is taught to us. Why do we resist it so much? It feels like being gravely offended. We have our principles, and now we have to listen to others telling us what is right? What is wrong? Let me tell you, in a small whisper, it's actually nice to listen. Just listening, not obeying. It will feel like swallowing a rock. Maybe we could learn from the chickens a little, metaphorically. They swallow small rocks to aid in healthy digestion. So let's swallow some of the hard lessons.

You always like to think in concrete fashion. You try to touch your thoughts with your own hands and knead them, mould them into whatever you want. And when you're dropped into a relationship with someone, you find yourself lost that ability. It's all a jumble mess. You find your hands reaching out, grasping for something. How about the other person? Are you afraid that you will lose yourself if you hold on to them? It's fine, you won't. It's just an outdated belief that you've held on for far too long.

As we were talking about swallowing, you may want to watch what you're swallowing into your stomach, literally. Watch what you eat! Don't make yourself, ourselves suffer by bringing unhealthy things into our body. We may want to live long, you know.

Hey, if you find a dance class is too embarrassing, how about we turn off the light and dance with each other in the middle of the night. Nobody will know, but we will feel good (I'm not trying to be a flirt with myself here)

Your best friend, love.

3. Red

Make me a cup of tea, please.

Let's have a chat, just us, lying around lazily, sipping our favourite tea, imagining some weird scenarios to entertain us, playing some puzzle.

I don't have much to tell you because we talk to each other every day and I know you always try to be better for us. I love you and I'm proud of you. Let's be vain and give ourselves applause every day. Make it a pinky promise.

A reminder when you're feeling sluggish and slow, we are going to exactly where we need to be. You are guided and protected.

Keep on shining and be the little kid that runs around in the rain.

I love it when you're running wild, letting yourself, me, free, splashing colours everywhere. I just want to grab other people's hands and drag them to the dance. I love it when you're laughing, loudly, even better when you jolted others around you, oh, their surprised look, priceless.

Just be sure to take care of your body. Don't over tasking them. Work hard, play hard, but rest hard also.

Have you been thinking about going on a trip somewhere? No? Then, allow me to make a gentle request. Let me put the idea in your head. Go on, go to wherever you're thinking, there might be a surprise waiting for us, *hint: it will make our heart flutter*.

Let's make it a ritual to go on a trip every year. Let's give our mind and spirit a makeover. Dust off any tangled mess we have and prepare a space for new things to come into. I'm so excited.

It's got me thinking lately, there's this small blinking light in the back of our mind, sometimes I can see it, sometimes I can't. I want to find out what it is. It's like a signal, trying to reach us, can you feel it? Sometimes, there's this odd feeling swelling inside that you can't put your hand on and naming it. I think if we can sit still, quiet, in the dark, we could see it better. It's guiding us. To where? I got a feeling that it's somewhere deep, somewhere with a treasure, waiting for us. If we can uncover it, it will be the greatest gift that the universe has ever given us. So let's go and find it.

Love, myself.

4. Green

I have some news for you. Brace yourself for changes. They're coming, very fast, very soon. Sit yourself tight. I don't want to give spoilers, but I guess we will receive some sudden confessions or offers. What you will do with those confessions is completely your choice. You don't have to feel guilty if you don't return their feelings, my dear.

I think the way the universe is sending us this kind of surprise is telling us to reconsider our 'single' thinking mode. We have stood alone, strong and independent for so long, I think it actually makes us a little too comfortable in being alone that the thought of getting into a connection with someone can be daunting. Will we lose our freedom? What if we are dependent on them? This time, the universe is saying: 'you and your worries will not make a good journey together, break up with those worries, here, I will throw in some opportunities for you to practice '.

If you don't want romantic connection at the moment, fine, different types of connections will come. No matter what, the universe is determined to get us involved with other people. It's for our own good. I have to admit that it's hard. It's not easy to change our way of thinking and believing. So surprises will be needed.

When opportunities come, the gate is opened, we just need to receive them. Walking through the gate will feel like walking out of a confinement into the wild, lively world outside. We will be propelled into a new path that we hadn't even considered in the past. Beware of what you said in the past about how you don't want to do something, you can't imagine yourself doing something. Well, guess what, we are going to do just that, joke on us.

So, in the meantime, even if you're resisting, it's fine. Just take care of yourself, of us. Obsessive worrying can sadden our body.

Something is going away, giving space to a new energy coming in. This new energy will be softer, more loving. The harshness of the past will go away soon. Trust me.

Love, Your companion.

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erwinsvow · 10 months ago

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They call you the clueless pogue. The pretty one.

You don’t care much either way—that comes from years of being Kiara’s best friend, she’s taught you well on how to ignore what other people think and say about you. Maybe you would care more, you think one day, watching JJ and Pope drive each other crazy while trying to fix something that’s inexplicably gone wrong with the Twinkie. John B is swinging in the hammock, eyes closed, empty beer in his hand that is soon replaced with a fresh one by Kie. She drops the old can into a bin that has the recycling symbol drawn on with a sharpie, her own creation. She walks towards you with a can of fruity seltzer since it’s well known with your new friends that you refuse to drink beer—and it all feels very domestic.

You might care about what other people say if you didn’t love your friends so much.

You are a little clueless though—at least the boys think so. They wouldn’t dare to say anything when your protective best friend was around, but when it’s just you and one of them, or all of them, it comes out a little more.

You wear the kind of clothes that they wouldn’t let a sister of theirs be caught dead in. They never used to care about stuff like that, not until you started hanging around more often. It was the result of absent parents that were only on the island a few months out of the year. The rest of the time you had free reign, and an unlimited credit card that often funded their adventures—gas for the Twinkie, beer for the night, a new outfit to wear to the party.

JJ gets into a fist-fight with a guy who keeps offering you a drink from the keg, not listening no matter how many times you refuse and grabbing the short hem of your yellow dress to yank you back. JJ doesn’t mean to knock him out—it’s just like instinct, he explains later that night to John B and Pope while you’re sound asleep on the pull-out with Kiara—the way he feels protective over you.

“Are you okay?” Kie asks, and you smooth out your dress from where that guy had grabbed it.

“Only because JJ saved me,” you say, looking at him with big doe eyes and fluttering eyelashes. He swallows uncomfortably.

“No biggie, princess, I mean you know me, I’m a big damsel-in-stress kinda guy-” Kiara rolls her eyes and brings you inside, and he’s left standing there with pink-tinged ears.

He doesn’t tell them about how you were looking around for someone, anyone to help, how scared you look when he touched you, how your face visibly eased when you locked eyes with JJ, how you held a bag of frozen peas to his black eye and kissed his cheek before going back to find everyone earlier. He decides to keep that for himself.

You don’t keep an eye out for your surroundings when you tag along on their adventures either. That’s pretty much John B’s responsibility now, walking towards the back with you. You often start looking around, head in the clouds, staring at the trees and sky and walking right into a pile of mud or a puddle.

“Wow, the air is so clean out here,” you comment while taking a deep breath. It’s said quiet enough that only he can hear you.

“Yeah, pretty girl, that’s because of all the trees.” You laugh and shove his arm, because duh, but you can’t respond because the others are yelling for you two to catch up.

He doesn’t let you lead—you’ve cried over too many ruined shoes for him to risk it anymore—instead he holds onto your hand firmly, gripping tight when he needs you to slow down and pulling gently when it’s okay to proceed. It’s his job to make sure all the bugs are out of the way, that you’re not walking into a spiderweb or running after a butterfly or pretty bird. The others tease you two and laugh, but you still thank him with a tight hug, the thin material of your sports bra not really hiding much, murmuring something about no signs of mud on your new sneakers.

“Yeah, anytime,” he breathes after you’ve already walked away. You turn back to smile at him, adjusting your ridden-up tennis skirt you’d sported today. “Wouldn’t wanna dirty those shoes.”

You make Pope feel like the smartest guy in the world sometimes, without even trying. It’s not like you’re stupid, because he knows you’re not, but when you bite your cheek and tap his shoulder to ask him another question about whatever you were working on, your words start going to his head.

“So if I wanna save this and put them all together, I just use this program? And I just use the mouse?” you say thoughtfully, repeating his instructions back to him.

“Yes, sweetheart,” and he tries his best to make sure he sounds patient—he’s learned from experience you don’t react well if you even suspect he’s getting frustrated.

Pope watches you play with the thin straps of your shirt before the string idly falls off your shoulder, exposing a swath of soft, sweet-smelling skin to him. Staring at your bare shoulder, he thinks he could never get frustrated at you even if he tried his hardest. When you finish making your little vision-board on photoshop, you turn to show him proudly, and he is proud, with how well you followed his instructions and weren’t too shy to keep asking for his help. Later that night at the Chateau, you lean against his shoulder with his arm swung around you on the couch and explain what each of the images mean until you fall asleep.

They’re all playing a game of chicken—wondering which one will be the first to cross that line and suggest something more than just friendship to you. Through empty cases of beer and boys-only fishing trips they’ve briefly discussed to each other that they’re interested, but of respect—to each other, not really to you—they haven’t made the first move just yet. No matter how difficult you make it.

At the beach you help the boys wax their surfboards, taking turns with each one, floating around a little tipsy already from your fruity drink. They’re all talking, but you don’t really pay attention, eyes staring at something in the distance.

JJ covers his mouth, imitating a walkie noise.

“Hello, uh, earth to princess, over.”

You turn back to him and his board, dropping the chunk of wax and leaning in. He blanks for a second—your pretty face getting closer, an eyeful of your tits in the tiny bikini you’re wearing today making his head spin. And you’re infront of everyone, which is definitely not how he’d thought he would win this little competition.

“Do you see that pretty girl over there? Three o’clock?”

“I see a pretty girl right in front of me,” he says, and you laugh, pushing his shoulder. He doesn’t realize that you think he’s just joking.

“Jayj, seriously. See her?” He nods, but still doesn’t turn to look. “She’s been staring at you for, like, ten minutes. You should go over there!”

You’re smiling big, like the idea of another girl talking to him sounds fun. He pulls back from you, confused.

“I need another beer.” He stalks off, walking to the boys while you turn to Kiara.

“What did I do wrong? I’m trying to get him laid-” Kiara rolls her eyes. You turn and see the boys in deep conversation, occasionally glancing back at you and Kie.

“She just told me to go flirt with some girl, like, right in front of her. I mean is this some kind of test?” He takes a long chug of the beer, sounding about as stressed as Pope and John B have ever seen. “Do I fail if I hook up with some rando? Or do I fail if I don’t hook up? It’s Schindler’s cat, man-”

“That’s not-” Pope starts, before being cut off.

“Sorry, sorry. Schrodinger’s kids.”

“No, JJ-”

“What the hell does she mean? So she wants us to hook up with other people?” John B cuts in, looking back at you, but something else on the beach seems to have caught your attention.

“Woah, I’m not doing that, but you two are more than welcome-”

“Yeah, nice try, Pope. We get with some girl so you can tell her you stayed loyal and win her over? I don’t think so, genius-”

“Well, you’re the one she’s trying to set up so I think I’m pretty safe right now-”

“It’s not a reality show Pope, you can’t eliminate me.”

“Guys,” John B speaks up.

“If this was a show, I’d clearly be the fan favorite and the winner-”

“Uh, says who? I would so win, let’s do a poll right now and survey this beach-”

“Guys.” Louder this time, they listen to John. He doesn’t say anything, just stares into the distance and soon they join him, to see what he’s looking at.

“Y’gotta be fucking kidding me,” JJ says, watching you run into Rafe’s arms, swinging around before giving him a kiss. Rafe pulls away and looks straight at the three of them, while giving them a wave.

#i am a proud supporter of reader x all three pogue boys <3 #obx #john b routledge #jj maybank #pope heyward #rafe cameron

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