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breadbrobin · 4 months

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nice

clarisse la rue x reader — percy jackson and the olympians

[fem!daughter of nyx reader]

summary: neither you or clarisse were very nice to anyone, except each other. and sometimes, not even each other.

warnings: swearing, flirting, kissing, clarisse is emotionally constipated, best friends and also idiots to lovers.

word count: 2.0k

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being nice had never been your strong suit. you were polite, sure. you never talked back. you were never disrespectful. but you were never nice either.

it was something clarisse la rue had always respected you for, and you knew it. it was in the way she would nod at you as you passed each other, the way she’d watch you when new campers came up to you and you met their questions with a blank stare, the way she’d have to fight down a smile when you spoke to her.

only her.

yeah, sure, you were never truly nice—not to most people, at least—but clarisse brought out the same side in you that you brought out in her. kindness.

you swore you could see the tension leave her shoulders when she saw you, and you could feel your jaw unclench when her hand ghosted against yours as you walked together. there was something in the brown of her eyes, the soft quirk of a smile on her lips, the lean in before she whispered a joke in your ear for no one else to hear. it made you feel like you could be nice for once.

it was a stupid feeling. one that made your heart feel fluttery, like it could fly out of your chest at any moment. stupid, stupid, stupid, but you couldn’t help the feeling. still, you held onto your heart with an iron grip. holding onto it for as long as you could before she inevitably swept it from your hands and out into the world, along with every semblance of dignity you still held around her.

“that new kid is getting on my nerves,” you groaned as you entered the ares cabin. it was always quieter in there than the hermes cabin, though that wasn’t difficult to achieve, but it was empty aside from clarisse, which didn’t often happen. as a daughter of nyx, you’d never really had any place in there, not truly. and sure, you didn’t exactly have a place in the ares cabin either, but no one there ever made you feel like an outcast for the way your eyes glowed slightly in the dark like a cat’s or the way darkness seemed to gravitate to you. that was always nice to have. there it was again: nice. society’s obsession with the word had always stumped you. ‘nice to meet you’, ‘you look nice,’ ‘nice work!’ what was the addiction?

clarisse cut through your thoughts like she always did—a sword to the bitterness in your soul and your mind, cutting through the gloom and grim to reach the light hiding well beneath. “what did she do?”

“she won’t leave me alone. apparently, everyone’s said i’m ‘super nice’ and ‘great to hang out with’,” you flopped onto the mattress beside her. she was sitting up, and as you lay there perpendicular to her, you could see that little smile that you loved to spot when you could. “fucking hermes kids and their dumbass pranks.”

“oh, no, whatever will you do?” she drawled dryly, but the hint of a smile was pricking the corners of her lips. she wrapped a strap of leather tightly around a dagger’s hilt.

“die, probably.” you said blandly, staring up at the bunk above you. “or something like that.”

“i could threaten her for you,” she shrugged, setting the dagger aside and leaning forward against her raised knees. “tell her to leave you alone or i’ll shave her head or something.”

you pulled a thoughtful face, then shook your head. “nah. she’ll probably just cry and tell luke, and he’s already looking for reasons not to like me.”

clarisse rolled her eyes. not many people got under her skin like luke did. she’d told you why once—getting a quest from his father was meant to be the greatest achievement of his life, and failing that meant failing his father. she couldn’t imagine that. the disappointment, the pain… she’d always been an overachiever, you supposed. “whatever. if he kicks you out you can move in here.”

you frowned and sat up. “what, really?”

she shrugged. “yeah. i mean, you spend so much time here anyway, so…”

you felt a smile dragging itself across your features and had to bite your lip to suppress it. “sure. if it comes to that, i’ll be at your door.”

“better be. don’t wanna hear any shit about you moving into athena or something.”

you laughed, pushing her lightly. “never. you’re my number one, sweetheart.”

she looked up and pulled a face at you. “gross.”

as you laughed, you realised how much you loved to be one of the only people to see clarisse like this. carefree, relaxed, pulling faces and laughing at bad jokes. it was your favourite way to see her—save for training in the arena, muscles working, skin glistening with sweat under the hot sun… you had to take a deep breath to rid yourself of the thoughts and images.

she smiled as you lay back down with a sigh. her fingers plucked a leaf from your hair smoothly and placed it on her bedside table. your eyes followed her movements. smooth, slow, strong. oh, gods, you were so supremely fucked.

“where’s everyone else?” you asked softly.

she shrugged. her mood had changed instantly. it wasn’t unusual for clarisse though, so you brushed it off. “dunno. told them to get out and they did.”

you frowned and propped yourself up on your elbows, looking up at her. “why? what’s wrong?”

she shrugged again and leaned back against the headboard of her bunk. “just did. nothings wrong.” but she wasn’t meeting your eyes, and the tension had lifted her shoulders around an inch higher, and you knew she was lying like you knew the back of your own hand.

“liar,” you said simply. “tell me.”

“no,” she scoffed. “and if you keep pushing, you’ll be leaving soon too.”

you rolled your eyes. “please. you won’t kick me out. just tell me, clarisse. what’s your problem? did one of those dumbasses make a joke about your dad again? or, what?”

her gaze turned to you and it almost made you flinch. she was angry. she was cold. and she’d never directed that at you. the room even felt a few degrees colder. “get out.”

a shocked laugh slipped from your throat. “what?”

“i said, get out.”

you stared at her. how did you get here? “clarisse—“

“out!” she shouted.

you stood up quickly, looking at her, just waiting for her to tell you she was joking. she was messing around, right? she wasn’t actually angry at you? the look on her face, her clenched jaw and her tight fists said otherwise. you looked down at her. “fine. whatever. you don’t have to tell me, but i’m the only person who gives enough fucks to listen. come find me when you’re ready to grow up.”

she didn’t say anything, no matter how long you waited, watching her, hoping she’d speak.

so you left.

it wasn’t unusual for clarisse to lock people out, but it was unusual for her to lock you out. you were her right-hand man. her advisor. her best friend. and, if you were right, probably the girl she was in love with. (if you weren’t right, she had some explaining to do, because who looks at their best friend like that?)

it was two days. two days of silence. loneliness. boredom. and a twelve year old girl following you around camp because ‘luke told me you’d be my guide!’ when would luke stop trying to get you more involved? surely, he should have learned by now.

regardless, two days were a very long time on your own.

and it was coming up on two day and two nights too, as you were walking on the shore, shrouded in inky darkness and kicking rocks into the quiet water. this was a normal occurrence for you: night walks in a cloak of night itself. it hid you from everyone’s prying eyes.

“i can see you.”

well, nearly everyone.

“thought you weren’t taking to me,” you dispersed your darkness but didn’t look over at clarisse. she was standing behind you, back along the beachfront.

she didn’t speak again, but you still didn’t look back. the lack of footfalls walking away made you realise you just had to trust that she was still there.

you kicked another rock.

“it was my dad.”

you nearly slipped on the wet rocks. “what?”

“that’s what i was upset about. he came to one of my brothers in a dream, but he didn’t come to me.” her voice sounded weak, pathetic, almost child-like in the way that all kids sounded when they just wanted their parents to see them. you understood that too well. after all, wasn’t that the whole reason why you took night walks? being closer to a mother who was the literal embodiment of night itself was a little difficult to achieve, and these walks felt like the only way to manage it. that was why clarisse fought so fiercely and so much—for glory, for power and for her fathers approval.

you turned to face her. you were around ten feet away, but you closed the distance quickly, stopping not far from her. “why didn’t you tell me? why did you push me away?”

“i hate feeling weak.” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. you could see a shine of tears in them. “and you… you make me feel weak.”

you frowned in confusion. “i’m sorry? i think? how do i—?”

“gods, you’re so oblivious,” she sighed. “i used to hate being around you, you know? because you made me feel like i could relax. you still do. you’re the only person that makes me feel like that, and that’s fucking terrifying, y/n.”

you stared at her. was this…? no… “clarisse—“

“just stop talking,” she groaned. “you always talk around me and that just makes things worse! because— because your voice is—is— when you talk it’s like it’s meant for only me!”

“it is,” you said softly.

she froze, looking at you. “it is?”

“yeah, stupid,” you rolled your eyes. “you don’t need to yell at me or anything. i get it.”

“you don’t get it,” she scoffed.

“wanna bet?” you teased, stepping closer.

“i do, actually, yeah,” she met you in the middle, her usual confidence back and stronger than ever, but you could feel her hand shaking as it brushed against yours. “what are the stakes?”

“bragging rights,” you shrugged. “and if i’m right, i’m gonna tell everyone you’re a softy.”

“you won’t tell anyone, because you don’t want to talk to anyone, dummy,” she rolled her eyes. “i’m the only person you actually like.”

you shrugged. “that’s true. i do like you.”

and you kissed her.

you kissed her like the world was ending, like world war three was starting, like you’d be interrupted at any moment.

darkness swirled around you, covering the two of you in inky black as footsteps echoed on a cabin porch in the distance.

clarisse kissed you back with everything she had, with all her strength, like all of her hours of training were made to hold you close and never let you go.

and, when you finally separated, as smoke-dark blackness drifted around you, you found that you’d never been able to see so clearly in your life.

“please, never shut me out again,” you whispered against her lips. “ever. i don’t want to go through that bullshit again.”

she laughed, a quiet sound that echoed through the night. “gross. that was so lame.”

“shut up.” you kissed her again.

you didn’t even mind that she made you feel nice, anymore. nice, and fluttery, and like your heart could fly out of your chest and into the night, and you wouldn’t even be sad to see it go if you had her. and you knew then, you’d always have her.

(requested by @slaggylemon)

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x you #clarisse la rue x y/n #percy jackson #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader #dior goodjohn

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hoseoksluna · 8 days

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VAPOR, pt III. | jjk ft. myg

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x steam!oc

genre: smut

word count: 9.9k

summary: the naughtiest of times bring about the greatest of healing.

pinterest board: vapor

warnings: punishment, spanking, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), a little bit of ass play, cum eating, raw sex, multiple orgasms, sex toy included, praise kink, jk smokes:), jk also reveals a past pain:(

note: nawt my best work, but i guess it's alright:( here it is, my loves—the very end to the steam series. i enjoyed indulging myself in this world and i'd like to thank all of you for allowing me to do that. thank you so much for all the love and support. i do all of this for you:) wink wink. this is pure smut and nothing else, and i hope you like this at least a little bit. i love you all so much, pwease give me your feedback, thank you. <3

Jungkook thought brushing his teeth with you in the morning while you wore his boxers and stole one of his white, ribbed tank tops was heaven enough. That was until he couldn’t lay his sleepy gaze off of you when you sat on his balcony with a cigarette between your two fingers and a cup of strong coffee in the other two and your thumb.

Still can’t.

He’s never been a morning person. To him, all mornings resembled some kind of hell that you suffer through until afternoon rolls around until you finally awaken. But seeing you like this, delighted, with two of your pleasures… he might become an early bird. Wake up each morning with joy just to see yours. Just to watch you be at complete peace, puffing out the smoke out into the sun-breathed air.

The weather is a stark contrast to yesterday’s funeral of clouds. Not one is in sight, sun rays envelop the heavens in a golden light that spills through your hair—half done in a messy knot of some sort at the back of your head while wisps of shorter strands frame your face and your neck. He’s given you his spirally hair tie that he wore in his pre-military days. Your eyes almost popped out of their sockets when he told you how long he let his hair grow because he knew shaving his head was inevitable and it served as some kind of strange preparation for him. You brushed your fingers through his hair, then, unbelief painting your face in cutesy colors. As if you tried to feel the long-gone memory of his long tufts of hair that curled at the ends. He was so touched by it—maybe it’s one of the reasons why he can’t stop looking at you now.

It’s dawning on him that you love him. That you’re his. It wasn’t a dream, after all.

And you’re such a stark image of effortless beauty—even with your puffy eyelids and mouth, with your healthily flushed cheeks. How can he not look at you… he fears if he does, you’ll disappear into the thin air. He can’t afford that, not when he went through so much pain to get to this point.

This is his reality now. It’s difficult to get used to. He’d never thought he’d get this lucky. Perhaps, heaven does care about him, wants to see him after all, because it blessed him with you, blessed him with freedom that he can indulge in hand in hand with you.

Jungkook feels an inkling to find a church and kneel at the altar. Thank God for what he’s done for him. Call his dad and tell him that he found Him.

The thought of how happy he’d be fills him with vigor redolent of the last of the summer creeping in. There’s so much of it that Jungkook finds it hard to breathe, his lungs taut with all this joy and love that he feels.

It seems as though this time he will, in fact, live his life happily. Get rid of his alcoholic habits, drink from the fountain of you instead—make that a brand new habit. Keep his paints. Keep the memory of your features and your sleep-tousled hair engraved deeply in his brain so he can transfer it onto his sketchbook. Eternalize you for generations to come. Clutch those papers tight to his chest when God does take him to heaven once his time comes.

Happiness. How did he deserve such a thing?

He sighs, watches you suck the last of your cigarette. The sunlight radiates you with a glow too grand for his eyes to take in and as you breathe out the swirls of smoke, he has to look elsewhere. Your full breasts pebble against his tank top, too stretched out for your small form, and it douses him with liquid tendrils of desire for you. All due to the fact you’re wearing his clothes, that you’re bare underneath them, that your nakedness brought about so much pleasure for him last night—due to the very memory that you didn’t wear your underwear for him because they would get in his way. Fuck, his cock tightens under his joggers, the ones that match those you wore to bed. He hasn’t eaten yet and he thinks you’re the perfect choice of breakfast for the day.

You put out your cigarette in the ashtray he found for you in the cabinet, left behind by the tenants that lived here before him, and a soft smile curls your slumber-kissed mouth. Your irises flick across the width of his chest, across his crossed forearms and biceps and your smile deepens. You cradle your cup of coffee in both of your hands, slouching in your chair. He’ll never tire of the way it feels to be looked at by you. The tendrils of desire thicken in him, flowing rapidly in his bloodstream.

“What do you wanna eat for breakfast?” you ask, and there’s something dangerous about your eyes now, mingling with the light and joy, dimming it little by little. He likes it so much, likes your question all the more, that he props his elbows on his knees and hooks his fingers around the back of yours, thumbs fondling the round bones.

The way his boxers don’t even cover the apex of your thighs, having ridden up so high—he stifles the hiss rising in his throat. They suit you so much he might let you keep them. That is, after he ruins them.

“You,” he murmurs, smirking, and you grin at him so luminously that the speed of his bloodstream slows down. Suddenly, the movement of your hand as you set your cup down is in slow motion—your fingernails provoking him by lightly scratching down his forearms, too. You study his tattoos as you do it, your gaze darkening fully.

You root them at the place, where he’s holding you. Palms flat against the back of his hands. Lean closer to him until you nudge your nose against his. The close proximity will always mess him up, no matter what. He feels himself bespangled by your light, by your celestiality, bringing in the heat until it’s all he knows.

You.

“What if I want to eat you first?” you whisper, head angling to kiss him on his jawline. Oh, he’s already done for; body charged with electricity all over. Your mouth closes over that bone so, so slowly, your tongue licking over that place in the same tempo, causing the hair on his body to stand up to attention.

“Eat what?” He laughs through his nose and you take after him—your giggles a warm rumble that sends tingles down his back, even though all his body longs to do is whimper for you. He knows what you meant, but he simply wants to hear you say it. The memory of the way you rubbed your face in such a private part of him, not just once—but twice, floods his brain and he’s so hard for you that it’s unbearable.

If he doesn’t get his release any time soon, he might combust.

He’d much rather it happens in your mouth. Like it did in the dressing room last night. Oh, fuck. Those winged fuckers are going at it again in his stomach, bringing about his madness for you.

“Your nose first, then your dick.”

It’s now that he lets out that sound—he can’t help it, can’t hold it back. Might need that cigarette of yours, even though he only smokes casually. This is what you do to him.

And you like that sound. You like it so much that you rise to your feet, only to straddle him. And, leaning back, he pushes you towards him until you’re flush against his body. To make you feel how aroused he is for you, your little pussy sitting against his imprint. At the feeling of it through such a thin barrier, you press your hum over his nose, kissing the ball of it with a sweet, soft giggle. His madness evolves into a frustration again and he wonders at the whole concept of it. Now that he has you all to himself, his sexual need for you tends to be on such a raging base, full of yearning, full of frenzy. So intense, so thunderous, so deafening. The world might break apart, fall upon every head with its destruction, if that need remains unfulfilled.

It’s spine-chilling. Absolutely petrifying. And irrevocably thrilling with all its bolts of power.

He kneads your bum with both of his hands, unraveling that melodramatic concept of his titillation for you with the strength he uses to squeeze your flesh with. Jungkook goes as far as to lift you onto your knees, raise the fabric of his boxers to reveal your skin and, holding it taut in his fist, he wetly kisses the red imprint of his hand that he left behind.

And his need flutters with something still yet forbidden.

Yours does, too. And it’s you who voices it out, setting it free like a bird that has been caged for centuries. It touches him, immensely—a deep sea of feelings resurfacing in him, sloshing to and fro, threatening to spill over.

“Spank me.”

Lust and love. A peculiar concoction of it that doesn’t exist in the realm of words. He feels it, feels it with every breath he takes.

“I should, right?” he rasps, dragging his fingernails down your carmine bum, sneaking his fingers around the squishy bottom of the flesh. He might drench his joggers—he didn’t wear his boxers to sleep; you’re wearing them for him. “For wanting to bite my nose off.” He clicks his tongue, squeezing, other hand wraps around your waist, holding you still. “I should spank you until it hurts. Until you cry.”

The most gentle of a moan spouts out of your mouth and he twitches, his need growing—all because you want it as much as he does.

Jungkook lifts his hand in a promise he’s about to do it and you shiver in anticipation.

“Please,” is all you say, but he’s not going to give it to you. He places his hand back in a soft manner, lifting it again to tease you and you wiggle your butt, his boxers still tucked halfway in between, the flesh rippling and he groans. A sight to die for. “I deserve it. Please, do it. I want it.”

He sighs, a wet spot forming in the place of the joggers where his tip is, and he can’t see anything. Can’t see shit when he lifts you up and takes you inside. Can’t see anything but you and the surface of his kitchen island, which he sets you down on, spreading your legs.

Confused by the swift motion, you rise to your elbows, but he pushes you right back down—holding your hips in the air, just like he did last night. You will see what he’s about to do to you, nonetheless. No need for you to strain your arms.

And when he closes his mouth over your clothed pussy, you roll your eyes back, moaning his name so loudly that it echoes throughout the kitchen, rooting around his dripping length. And his arousal for you is so overwhelming, so sensitive that one thrust of his hips against the fabric of his joggers brings him such pleasure coursing through his body that he might as well come like this.

Jungkook rids you of his boxers in a blink of an eye, throwing them somewhere out of his sight. No need for them, either.

Burying his nose in your clit as he licks your slit and plunges his tongue inside, he narrows his eyes at you as yet another wave of pleasure comes down upon him. This time from having you for breakfast, at last. You mewl so sweetly that it drives him to thrust his hips again and he groans, groans so deeply for you. Needs you to know what you’re doing to him.

“You’re gonna be the death of me one day,” he breathes out, lightly dragging the tip of his tongue across your clit before he swallows, hissing at the delight of your taste. You moan, trembling, barely able to take it. Fuck one day, he’s about to die now. “And you’re gonna make me come in my pants like a fucking boy. Is that what you want?”

Jungkook flicks your bud, fleetingly, just to make your sounds shudder in the sudden intensity. You clench your small fists in the air, your tremor so terribly visible and rigorous, and with your breath hitching in your throat, he sucks that delicious part of you into his mouth.

You stammer, badly enough that he begins to feel a sliver of pity for you, not enough for him to stop. He’s ravaging your little princess parts so hard that it takes a few tries for you to get the words out in a steady flow and he doesn’t help you. Doesn’t ease up for you, at all. Flicking, sucking, licking you up all over, rolling his tongue—he simply doesn’t stop, does it so fast that you lose yourself in it, submitting to it with all your being.

And along with your submission come out your words.

In perfect fashion.

“No, I want to suck you off.”

And along with those your orgasm, too.

Jungkook watches you take it, eyes lidded heavily, take all the pleasure he gives to you as it unfolds throughout your quivering body that he holds tightly in his grasp so you wouldn’t fall over. He sucks your clit until his mouth goes numb, opening it to drink you, not letting a drop of your nectar go to waste. You struggle to reciprocate the eye contact and he finds it so endearing that he wants to make you come all over again.

Setting you down, he caresses your wet little pussy with his thumb, palm spread wide across his tank top clothing your tummy. And while you try to catch your breath, he sends rays of his affection down to her the more he looks at her. He loves her so much that he bends down and kisses her. Over and over. Kisses the hickey he left on your left fold, the one below your hip bone as well. And then, he glances at you. Flushed and glowing, a personification of light. A girl most satisfied. So beautiful.

You sit up and the feeling of the coldness of the marble against your sensitive seashell makes you let out a whine, biting your lip briefly before you enclose it around his. You moan into the kiss and Jungkook knows why. He deepens it, hands drifting down your full breasts, your stiffened nipples. The touch makes you hum and grind your pussy against the island, opening your mouth. He takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside, playing with you, beckoning out your mouth-watering little whines. And when his fingers reach the hem of his tank top, he takes it off of you—your breasts bouncing, the wet spot in his joggers enlarging.

In this position, you’re forehead to forehead. And this time, he doesn’t want to kiss you. No, he wants to talk.

“You taste good, don’t you?” Jungkook husks, an allusion to the way you moaned into the kiss, fists on either side of your outstretched thighs. You bite your lip and furrow your brows, a hand sneaking around his neck. Such horny expression, scraping his madness raw. He’s greedy for more; wants to bleed for you. “Tell me. Tell me how good you taste.”

You sink your teeth so hard into your bottom lip at his words that you whimper once you let go, the pillow so reddened, so cute. The wrinkle between your brows deepens and you grind your hips again. Oh, he’ll put his hand there, on your still needy pussy, as soon as you answer him.

And you do—and his whole bloodstream lines with a river of flames.

“I taste so good,” you whine and he rewards you for your goodness, for that heat. Places his fingers flat underneath your clit, palm up. You immediately roll your hips forward and whisk your eyes back. That sensitive you are, after such an intense orgasm. He swears. Takes it as a sign to rub your bud and, pushing them back with one hand, he gathers your slick and smears it upon it, making it all the more pleasurable for you. Gusts of breaths emit out of your mouth, intertwining with the squeaky sounds of your juices and Jungkook almost drools, aching to eat you out all over again. The feeling of your parted lips, your slipperiness, the softness of your swollen bud—he grows desperate for it.

But he wants you to come like this, too.

“Ride my fingers,” he whispers, just for you to hear and not the angels surrounding him, whose favor he gained. “Come on. Grind your pussy on them, sweetheart.”

You mewl and you listen, straightening your spine. Use his shoulders for stability as you swing your hips back and forth. The silkiness of your flesh, the wetness that makes this a smooth ride for you—he moans, sucking in his breath each time. And then you become so terribly whiny, eyes squeezed tight, that he can’t help but to strum your clit as fast as he can. Your shudders begin again, your breasts rippling and he just thinks they’re asking for his tongue.

A flick of the muscle on your nipple. You cry out, arching your back, halting the movement of your pelvis and he takes over. Takes merely a minute to make you come all over his hand and scream out his name.

And then… then he grabs you by the back of your neck and pulls you in—almost nose to nose. A gesture to make you listen. To make you pay attention to the words he wants to say to you.

“This is what you deserve,” he purrs, speaking of the former mention of punishment, studying the way your eyes grow bigger than they already are. “To come again and again for me—and what’s more, I’m not finished with you yet. That wasn’t your last orgasm.”

You mewl and it seems that it’s all that you’re capable of uttering, the clitoral orgasm stealing all of your vocabulary.

Or at least he thought so.

“But I want you to spank me,” you say, your voice a satiny softness. “I want it so bad that I’ll do anything for it.”

Jungkook doesn’t know what’s more stimulating—whether the beauty of your strength or the sinfulness of your craving. The flames in him reach higher highs, burning his skin in a way that unfussily forces him to give you what you want; give in to you, surely and wholly.

“Is that so?”

You nod, leaning over and closing your mouth over the side of his neck, sucking the skin, making his eyes roll back. And when you begin to focus on his ear, your fingers sinking in his hair, he truly just might submit to that specific craving of yours, even though he wanted to save it for the cabin.

He might just give you a taste of it now.

It looks like you’re ready for it, but if he finds that your healing is incomplete, he’ll take care of you, undo the wrongness, distract your thoughts and fold your emotions into a cocoon of his love.

Pulling you away from him, he lifts you off the island and bends you over it. You giggle in triumph and the dulcet sound falters once he brushes your hair back and, pressing his length against your bare bum, he reciprocates the same treatment you gave to him. He doesn’t destroy your neck more than he already has—he barely has any space left to scatter it with hickeys and he doesn’t wish to cause you discomfort. No, he mouths your ear and kisses the very unmarked skin beneath it, nibbling it ever so gently.

It’s only when you circle your hips against him that he rips that gentleness away and bites, making you groan out.

“So that’s what my sweetheart wants,” he breathes, hands drifting to the crooks of those hips, right where your thighs begin, cooling the flames he spat onto that sensitive spot of yours. “Pain.”

The collision of his palm against your cheek is what steals your breath and you whimper in elation.

“Oh, fuck yes.”

He does it again, a bit harder this time, just to hear those delectable words, just to make sure you’re comfortable, rubbing your skin to soothe the sting. And when you pinch your nipples and moan, he gets on his fucking knees for you. Such a good girl; a strong angel.

At your ever persisting service. Eternal.

Spreading you apart, he catches your dripping slick with his tongue and pushes it back inside, thumbing your other tiny hole—pulling away momentarily to spit on it, smearing the lubrication there before circling it. Jungkook hears the soft thud of your head slumping against the kitchen island and you take it, take his abuse so well that he rewards you by flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit. Over and over until there’s another thing he hears.

He hears your phone ring.

His stomach drops. He knows full well who’s calling. And you prove his deduction right.

“It’s Yoongi,” you sigh, a bit of vexation evident in your voice, and Jungkook buries his face in your pussy, humming into her, purposefully. “Vi-video calling me yet ah-a-again. Oh, fuck.”

Pleased, he laughs. “Let it ring.” Doesn’t give two shits that he’s calling, but is a little annoyed that he keeps bothering you.

It doesn’t lessen his fire, though.

“But.” He withdraws to let you talk. Doesn’t take his eyes off of the glistening of your flesh. “If I tell him off and if he sees what you’re doing to me, he’ll stop calling me.”

His fire thickens, thrilling tendrils absorbing it. Very well. “Such a smart girl. Go for it, then.” He punctuates his sentence with a curt spank and you jump, rising onto your tippy toes as you curl your back, moans echoing. He caresses your legs all over, mouth latching over your slightly reddened cheek. Thinks it’s a perfect place for another hickey. And as he sucks the supple skin, he sinks a finger inside your heat, your walls welcoming him in.

You answer the phone with a moan. “I’m busy.”

You’ve placed your hand to the edge of the island, so Jungkook has a perfect view of what’s currently happening. You’ve hidden your squished breasts behind your forearm—like you did the first time he’d laid his eyes on you via Yoongi’s phone. How the tables have turned is so mind-boggling to him that it drives him to twirl circles on your other tiny hole, eating your ass with such verve that you can’t contain your sounds, especially not when he begins to caress your sweet little spot with his curling fingers.

Your legs begin to shake.

Yoongi calls you by your name. “What the fuck is this?”

“W-what does it look like?” you retort, grinning, looking back at Jungkook, catching his glance. He sends you rays of his love, eyes crinkling, the tip of his tongue finally penetrating inside. “I’m getting my ass eaten and you’re—” You suck a breath in, trying your hardest to remain calm and not succumb to the pleasure. Jungkook worsens it for you; he syncs his finger and his tongue, fucking you in one fast rhythm in both holes at the same time, and your stammer returns. “You-you’re disturbin’ me, oh fuck.” You pant, heavily, letting go of your phone and scratching your nails down the surface, trying to grab onto something, anything. Jungkook hums, endearingly, and catches both of wrists in his hand at the small of your back. Seeing you bound like this, bound in pleasure mainly, while on the phone with your ex-boyfriend almost makes him come in his fucking pants. “I don’t want to fucking come looking at your face. I’m not on your timeline, stop calling me.”

Oh, Jungkook wouldn’t even let you—and the reason why he intensified your pleasure was to spite your ex-boyfriend. It seems as though it worked because Yoongi remains silent, at loss for words in most probability, and you consider your job done, tugging up your arm.

“Let me hang up,” you whisper to him and Jungkook loosens his fingers for you, the sound of the call ending etching a smirk on his face.

He straightens his form and, turning you around, he pins you against the island, his smirk only widening. The love, the proudness he carries in his heart for you, the freedom that oozes out of his every pore—he uses it to kiss you, tenderly. Fights hard to stifle his grin, to mold his lips into yours, but to no avail. You mirror his expression of joy, looking up at him, both of your wrists back in his hold behind your back.

“You took your spanks so well, enjoyed them,” he murmurs his praise, his other hand clasping around your binding. “Didn’t even think once about the past. And to top it all off, you basically told your ex-boyfriend to fuck off. Moaned your lungs out. I’m in awe,” he continues, his voice dropping an octave lower, meaning every word. “I’m in awe of you. What a good girl you are. The best.”

The glint in your irises bursts and spreads all around, your eyes becoming two lighthouses that gain a new instinct to bring him home, whatever form that might spur into. You blush for him, taken aback by his praise, and your lashes flutter so prettily that he grows weak in the knees. His reactions are constant, never-changing when it comes to you and he finds so much beauty in them, in you that he feels as though it’s golden sand in his fingers and all he longs to do is finish his job like you did. You rouse the inspiration in him—you always have.

And listening to his body, he stumbles back into his former position. On his knees for you, at your ever fucking eternal service. And he makes you come with his fingers stuffed in your heat and his tongue flicking your clit until your knees give out as well and he has to take you then and there. Against the window on the other side, your pleasured body embraced, almost, by the golden aura that spills from the sunlight. And he opens it out, stretches it, with every word that trickles out of his mouth and into yours with every swift stroke. A bunch of rays of ‘You’re mine’, ‘My pretty, tight pussy’ and ‘Good girl, take it all, it’s all yours’ permeate your skin, lighting you up from beneath and when you come around his cock, your light doesn’t fade into his and leave you barren. No, it melts, a conscious, ever-flowing stream, into him and soaks him up. It’s still one singular light, but in two bodies.

And the two loads he filled you up with caused weariness to drop so heftily on you that he bathed you in the tub. Scrubbed you clean. Washed your hair. Made you smell like him. Was extra careful when touching the hickeys he left behind on your body, the other unmarked parts of you handled with similar care.

He didn’t even forget about your candle. Borrowed them your shared light and you kissed him quite sweetly for it.

Even when he dressed you in his clothes. A pair of old baggy jeans that don’t fit him anymore and the same white tank top, a clean one, fragrant with the wholeness of summer he will perpetually connect with you. You pecked him so cutely when he tapped your waist, signaling that you’re all done. He knows it was the deepest thank you that you could’ve ever expressed to him. And he hugged you, hugged you so tight that you merged into him, bunching your wet hair in his fist.

It didn’t dry up until he parked by the cabin. Having curled into winsome waves, he couldn’t stop touching them when he lead you towards the front door and, most peculiarly, it ached when he had to let go in order to unlock the door.

His clinginess to you constringes the longer he spends time in your presence and because you’ve graced him with such freedom, he doesn’t mind. Not one bit. You show no signs of being irritated by it and it causes him to think that, perhaps, when God made you, He put some mechanism in you that needs it. Just like he planted those roots of clinginess in him—for no one else but you to receive, to carry, to take care of.

It’s what he thinks about when he makes you lunch while you smoke on the balcony, having finished with the fresh drinks you made for yourself and him. Elderberry with lemon and ice, with funky, colorful straws once again left behind by the past tenants, ready on the dining table. This time you will actually sit down to eat and Jungkook won’t get kissed on the face by the strong knuckles of his once-close friend.

An emotion stirs within him as he flips the meat on the small indoor grill. Tears prick in his waterline because despite the fact he enjoyed spiting him, he still wonders how he’s handling this. Mourns the loss. Probably will for some time. There’s a certain freshness to it that won’t let go of him.

Those liquid feelings almost dissipate when you wrap your arms around him from behind and kiss his spine. He’s not matching you that much—is wearing the only clean laundry he had. A white oversized tee, a zipper hoodie of the same color with jeans. But he feels the love you press onto his back as if your lips touch his bare skin, singing the two layers through and through.

Jungkook reckons you’re saving him as you’re lingering there with your face buried between his shoulder blades. Saving him from spilling.

“I can’t wait to visit the pond once we’re finished with our food,” you murmur and Jungkook hums in response, placing the rest of the meat onto a plate.

“It’s done, we can eat now,” he croaks out, his voice touched by the residue of his emotions and you rub his belly with your hands. He smiles, fondly, at the gesture. You just keep on saving him.

“Do you think the water is cold?”

Considering the rain that would not leave for days, the water is anything but suitable for swimming. And when he turns around, he meets your mischief, playfully toying with your features. A curled smirk, lifted brows, light flickering in your eyes, reflected in your lashes. He might let you dip your toe in. Just one.

Only because you depict such distinct beauty and he can’t resist it. Can’t resist you, even if he tried his hardest.

“Too cold,” he says, however. Just as playfully. “Freezing.”

Helping him with the plates, you sit down to eat and before you dig in, you thank him once again in the form of a peck. Oh, he might spill, ultimately. In a much different way. Melt into liquid love for you—a putty at your disposal. He’s never come across someone as sweet as you.

“My sweetheart, enjoy your food.”

A sliver of comfortable silence hangs in the air as you finish your food and once he downs the drink you made for him, a different type of hunger itches in his throat.

A hunger for a cigarette.

He watches you as you take his plate and bring it into the kitchen, never forgetting to at least graze one part of your body as you depart away from him, his clinginess a full blown, ceaseless stream and when you come back to him and take his hand, he remains seated. Looks up at you. Is probably giving you a nasty set of puppy eyes, he can’t tell. Doesn’t really care. Interlocks his fingers with yours and brings your knee in between his. Just because.

“You know what I want right now?” he says, stroking the back of your thigh, and you smile down at him all excitedly. “A cigarette.”

You squeal and he didn’t expect such sound to come out of you, such display of joy at such mindless thing. You quiver, taking his other hand and pulling him to his feet. Grab your pack and lighter and drag him out to the balcony.

And with a cigarette of your own hanging from your lips, you sink the butt of the spare one between his, your lighter ready in your hand, flicking it to life. Then, a sudden gust of wind blows your hair in front of your face in a grand, sublime way, the clouds shrouding the sunlight, a layer of grayness dispersing across the atmosphere. Jungkook is mesmerized, completely, strands of your hair tickling your cheeks as you focus on lighting his cigarette, such serious expression coating you.

He almost forgets to suck on the cigarette when you cup the lighter, protecting the flame from the breath of the autumn slinking in. How can someone be so beautiful, so caring? He could’ve lighted up his hunger himself, but no—you wanted to do it.

And because of that, he steals your cigarette and grabs your cheek in one hand, careful not to break it. Taking a delightful drag, he opens your mouth and puffs it inside. Watches you swallow it down, your eyes narrowed in a foreign pleasure, and to reward you, he kisses you deeply. But at the taste of his hunger on your tongue, the kiss grows tempestuous. He devours your mouth, makes it puffy all over again, and something else grows hard in tandem.

Something in his pants.

And the way you kiss him back—he has to physically pull himself away from you in order not to take you right here, in order not to bend you over this railing and bury himself so deeply inside you that all the animals in the forest scurry away at the sound of your squeaks. Much, much different ones.

His body tingles, looking at you panting, longs to kiss you again—bring that notion into reality. It’s not merely you who’s become aroused because one swift glance over your body clad in his clothes reveals that you have, too. Your stiffened nipples protrude through his tank top and he has to hold onto that railing and take a deep drag of his cigarette in order to stick to his composure like his life depends on it.

Perhaps, it truly does.

“You’re so fucking irresistible,” he comments, mirroring your former actions—placing the cigarette between your lips that willingly open for him, lighting it up. “It’s crazy. I can’t spend one minute in your presence without wanting to fuck you brainless. What are you doing to me, huh?”

You blush, but he didn’t mean it as a compliment. Thinks he should change his ways and call you beautiful more often, so you learn what a true compliment is, despite the fact how hard he finds it. His lungs constrict, choking the life out of him that you gave him—an unfond memory clouding his sight.

A blond set of hair swishing past. A roll of eyes as he threw that compliment in her way. The dismissal that still lives in him.

“You sure it’s me?” you retort, angling your head to the side, two fingers widening slightly as you suck on your cigarette. You tossed the memory away and cuddled his headspace. “Maybe you have a problem.”

Oh, he remembers this feistiness of yours. Missed it, dearly. Makes his cock needy. Even more prominently so now—now that you clothed him in healing.

“True, one taste of you and I’ve become a nymphomaniac,” he says with a mighty, peculiar easiness. Clicks his tongue. “I guess I should go to therapy.”

Your blush deepens and you hide your laughter behind your busy palm. Jungkook shakes his head, not believing something like that could flush your face like this with such rosy, radiant color. He pulls you towards himself, squeezes your bum. Takes a drag, loving the burn in his throat.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, fondling the sweet color of your cheek with his thumb. The smoke from his cigarette curls around your wavy hair. “Do you even know how beautiful you are?”

It’s you who shakes your head and you place your palm flat on his chest. A gasp leaves your mouth when he spanks you for your disagreement. Then, your mouth ends tip.

Jungkook laughs, softly. “Run. And if I catch you, I spank you again. On your bare bum this time.”

He pushes you and you squeal, turning on your heel and heading for the stairs down that lead to the pond. He could run after you to make you happy—it doesn’t matter he’s wearing his home slides. He’s danced with them, even barefooted, so this is no big deal for him. But he wants to give you the thrill of the chase, so, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray, right next to yours, he slides his hands into his front pockets and waits until you’re halfway there at the pond. Then, then, he slowly makes his way down.

You’ve stopped, however. Half turned, you watch him as he chases you down Michael Myers style. And when he’s at arms-length distance away from you, you begin to run away and this time your feet acknowledge themselves with the wood of the dock that floats above the surface of the still water. There’s nowhere for you to go and he fears you’ll jump into the water. Or, maybe you just want to get spanked that badly.

He’s about to find out.

Gray shadows envelop you, choking out your squeals again when you see Jungkook running after you and you edge dangerously close to the end, bum leaning against the ladder going down.

He lifts his palm, signaling you to stop right there.

And you surprise him. You kick your feet into momentum and as you run and collide into him, you throw him into the water.

The iciness of the water stings and his breath lodges in his throat, submerged. Paralyzation takes a hold of him, but not enough for his body to emerge to the surface. He rubs his eyes as he inhales deeply, shaking off the water from his hair like a dog, his eyesight slowly unblurring and he sees you laughing. The trees bend at the sound, sighing along and the wind, once again, stills.

You even have the nature wrapped around your finger, not just him. And he can’t be mad at you, not when your girlish giggles spark up a joy in his heaving chest, ridding him of the coldness he feels.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t punish you for it.

You asked for it.

He swims to the dock and pulls himself up. The ease he did it with, his wet clothes that cling to his body and accentuate his muscles, it causes your dulcet laughter to falter, little by little and you back away from him.

That aches a tiny bit. He relaxes his face, in case that’s what drove you to do that and he unzips his hoodie, throwing it at your feet. His T-shirt comes next and you swallow, dryly, your eyes drifting along his pecs and abdominal muscles.

You hiss at the cold sensation of his knuckles against the fine sliver of skin of your stomach, the dip between the hem of his tank and his jeans as he unbuttons them and harshly tugs them down. You let him, placing your hands on his shoulders once he kneels and lifts both of your feet, folding the denim and flinging it onto the pile of his sopping hoodie. Your socks and his boxers follow along, leaving behind only his tank top.

Bunching it in his fist, he tightens his mouth in a narrow line and pulls you in. More to cover you from the cold than to soak you and he raises his palm until it levels with your shoulder blade before he spanks you. The slapping noise vibrates through the canopy of the trees and he likes to think the weeping willow in his peripheral vision trembled at the reverberations.

“That’s for me catching you.”

Another spank. On the other cheek. Just as hard.

“That’s for the way you pushed me into the water.” You don’t make a sound, only tiny little breaths spill out of your mouth as your big eyes ogle his dripping face. Taking it so well that his cock, achefully, hardens even more. “All this fucking forest all around and you decided to get on here, on this dock. Push me in.” A spank. “In the freezing.” Another one. “Fucking water.” Another.

You moan, swaying on your feet and he straightens you, grabs your wrist and wraps it around the nape of his neck.

“And this.” Jungkook licks his fingers, sneaks them between your bodies and finds your clit, rubbing it rapidly. “This is for the way you enjoy it. Enjoy being spanked. Being punished. Enjoy being a bad little sweetheart.”

You moan, a wrinkle between your brows, and your legs begin to quiver, your orgasm fast approaching. And the fire in him, created by your playfulness and his own words, he becomes it. Like you’re the personification of light, he’s the flames that keep it warm. An oxymoron most profound, most perfect, unseen by the world.

He rips your orgasm away. Spanks you. Kneads your ass. You whine so terribly that it beckons his pity. Enough for him to creep his thigh in between yours, grasp your hips and make you ride it.

“You wanted me wet, so get off on it,” he orders, unlatching his hands, taking off the tank top and fisting your hair, trusting you to hump him well enough on your own. “I know you like it cold, so grind that pussy on my thigh. And don’t stop until you come.”

It’s fast, the way you move your hips and bring yourself to the absorption of your climax. You look at him the whole way through and Jungkook nods with his bottom lip between his teeth, encouraging you to ride out the wave.

“Good girl, coming so fast. Get on your knees.”

He takes off his even more drenched pants. You wait for him with an open mouth and he senses the welcoming embrace of death.

When he plunges his length into that salivating hole, it’s his fire that he feeds you. Despite the coldness, pearls of sweat adorn your forehead and Jungkook grips your hair and fucks your mouth, not letting you be in control, uttering his guttural moans lowly.

“That’s what you get, my love.”

You swallow around him in response and his life flashes before his eyes. Pictures of you, pictures of this cabin dressed in all of the seasons and he halts his thrusts. Pushes your head, instead. Back and forth until he can’t fucking take it anymore.

Your spit trickles down onto the wood. Tears line your vision. Hard, shiny cock in your face. He tells you what he thinks of the sight.

“So beautiful. Look at how hard and wet you made it. You deserved every inch down in that pretty throat of yours.”

It’s a start. Still has a demon on his own to conquer, one that sits around somewhere deep in his chest, where a string of his past relationship makes dents in his lungs. One that he doesn’t want to admit he still has. One that he’s learned to forget about.

But he is changing his ways. For you.

You moan and scratch your nails down his thighs, the fire forming into an animal in you. A feral, little thing that knows what it needs. And he’s going to give it to you, mind already working on the forgetting.

“I love your cock. It’s all mine.” You mouth it, glide your puffy lips upon its length and despite the pleasure he gets from it, he pushes you away.

Straddles your hips. Turns you onto your tummy. Knows the personal cock time was too brief for you, but he can’t risk having his orgasm like this.

“Yes, my love, all yours. And I’m gonna fuck that brain out of your head with it.”

You mewl. “Yes, please.”

In contrary to your words, you try to crawl away when he sinks himself inside, your nails making pretty music on the wood. He brings you right back to him. Presses you down flat with his hand on your back. All while still inside of you. You sputter out your moans and, licking his thumb, he circles your other hole, making them grow in volume.

“No, sweetheart. Don’t run from it. You can take it. Believe in yourself the way I believe in you.”

The strokes he gives you are hard, engraving your rose tattoos made of hickeys onto the dock and he realizes that’s exactly what he wants. He desires to have everything he owns smell like you, look like you and carry remnants, memories and keepsakes of you for generations to come. And so he fucks you not only harder, but faster.

Thinks your back is awfully bare and missing the rest of the marks.

Jungkook bites onto the skin above your shoulder blade and you catch him off guard.

“Jungkook, I’m gonna come like this.”

He hums, fondly. How quickly your walls have gotten used to accommodating him. “Not yet, my love.”

Swiveling you, he hooks your knees onto his shoulders, sinking back into you this way—sinking back home.

And it begins to rain.

Jungkook hears the touch of the droplets upon the surface of the pond first before the same ones pelt down his back. And the briskness that affects him, the conjunction of an autumn kissed by the last of summer—it drives him to crush his lips onto yours with such vigor that he hopes the autumn, at the sight of it, will be here to stay, in all its wholeness. No more triggers of the past seasons. Newness, only. Singularity.

He doesn’t carry you away from the rain. No, he hides you with his own body. Takes every hit from the ruthless downpour for every lash across your heart, for every scar etched for all eternity on its flesh. Hands cradling your head, the broadness of his back a cover for the top half of your body and you keep him there with your hands gripping his hair, holding on for dear life. It stimulates him enough to fuck you just as hard, imprinting the lines of the wood onto your back.

Not so bare anymore.

You could never be an empty canvas. Not with him.

Not when you care for him in the midst of the pleasure.

“Jungkook, ah, you’re go-gonna catch a cold.”

He kisses you for it, terribly touched. “But it feels so good.” A languid stroke, the squelching of your pussy; he rolls his eyes back, sucking in a breath. “Come for me and I’ll get you inside.”

He picks up the pace, seizing your pleasure. But then you start moving your hips up and down and he feels you fill up every dent in his heart with each movement, each moan, each squeeze of your walls. And when you make yourself come on his cock, he considers himself strong enough to tell you all about it later.

Carrying you inside while hiding your head from the rain in the crook of his neck, he takes you up to his room and sets you down like the princess you are underneath the ivory canopy above his bed. Senses your irises digging little pursed pecks into his back as he rummages in his dresser, fishing out a pink bottle of lube and a dildo. Smaller than his length, but almost the same as his girth. Skin-like. With balls attached.

He’s smirking as he swivels, joy evident on his face. He’s eager to watch you ride it and your two lighthouses for eyes divulge to him just as how excited you are yourself.

You spread your feet for him once he’s an inch away from you, smiling from ear to ear. “Fuck me with it,” you purr, wrapping your legs around his torso.

Even the most solemn man in the world wouldn’t be able to not grin at this moment. Too bad he wouldn’t let him near you. His heart pounds, aches to say no to you, but he simply wants to watch you ride it.

“No, sweetheart. I want to watch.”

You frown. “But you haven’t cummed yet.”

He caresses your small pout and you kiss his thumb. His smile widens. “That’s okay.” He might be throbbing, but watching you bounce on a silicone dick will bring him a great deal of pleasure, nonetheless.

“Then, touch yourself for me.”

He hums, his heart lodged in his throat. The turning of tables must be in the script to this movie that he considers his life shared with you. And he likes it more than he’s able to comprehend amidst his intense arousal.

“You have to ride it well, then.”

You suck on his thumb momentarily, a smirk quirking your lips. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.”

Pecking you shortly, he squirts a ton of lube on the dildo and all around your princess parts, rubbing your clit to tease you. The gasp you let out causes him to laugh softly in endearment and then…

Then, he leaves you to it.

Sitting back in his rocking chair, he fists his cock, the leftover lube making a squeaky sound on his skin. You get on your knees, line yourself up and Jungkook tugs down his foreskin for you, allowing you to see the drops of his male essence oozing out. It turns you on to the point that you moan and bite your lip, sinking down on the toy and he’s breathless.

“Fuck, it’s not as big as you,” you whine, sitting down on it, fully, maintaining eye contact with him. His heart thuds in harsh staccatos. “I barely feel anything.”

A sly remark about your ex-boyfriend’s length is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Doesn’t want to ruin the moment. He’s not a constant presence. Not anymore. So why bring him back?

And what’s more, you’re lying. Because when you begin to bounce, tentatively, your eyes whisk back and you pinch your nipples, the squelching sound of your pretty little pussy driving him to fuck his fist just once. He knows if he keeps going, he might miss the whole experience, plagued by the shadow of his pleasure. He palms his balls instead, his cock protruding from the crook between his fingers and his thumb. Still wet from you.

“Harder,” he commands, squeezing his balls when you listen and he hisses, fights with all his strength not to flutter his eyes closed like his body is begging him to. He can’t miss this. It’s too good to miss. He bites down on his lip.

“Jerk off that cock, please,” you plead, your breasts bouncing and he bites down harder, the fire in him burning off his skin. “It doesn’t feel as good when you don’t.”

He swears and begins to move his hand, gliding up and down, pressure hard. “Are you imagining it’s me?”

“Yes, oh my God. I’m riding you and it feels so fucking good, Jungkook.”

He moans, focusing on his sensitive head. Tips his chin up. Doesn’t break the eye contact. “Good girl. You’re doing so well.”

The praise gets to you and your fingers sneak to your clit, rubbing fast little circles—and just like that he nears to the edge. Whimpering for you, he fucks his cock harder. Hot flashes surround your flushed face and you mimic his sounds.

That’s his very fucking undoing.

Getting on his feet, he paints your breasts and tummy white and you begin to shudder, his orgasm coaxing yours. You pinch your little hard nubs—and it’s almost like you’re milking him dry, spurts after spurts making new tattoos on your torso, white roses to mingle with your red and purplish ones.

And his woozy brain can’t help but to look forward to see them fade to yellow.

He kisses you so hard that he doesn’t feel you breathe and when he pulls away, he collects his cum and feeds it to you. Can’t have it go to waste when he knows what he’s planning for you.

“That was so good,” he whispers, sealing such an intimate moment with another ravenous kiss.

He doesn’t let you respond—he pins you back. Ass up, face down. Squirts lube all over that deliciousness and when he glances over at the ruined dildo, he whistles. Pearls after pearls of your girlish essence trickle down the length and he shows it to you. Hard all over again.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” he praises and your eyes widen in that familiar way he likes, mouth parting, blush deepening. “Stick out your tongue.” You listen, so fucking well, and he plunges the silicone tip inside your mouth, circling it around that willing muscle. “That’s it, lick it up, sweetheart.”

You look up at him as you do it, making smacking sounds, so terribly fucked out. Jungkook has to grip your hair in order to hold on to the last of his composure, and when you begin to suck on it—he can’t take it anymore.

He fucks you with it. Fucks you into the mattress. Punishing you for the things you do to him, for the fire that grows hotter and hotter in his veins. And he loves you, dearly, with the entirety of his being, that his fingers cannot physically stay away from your little sopping clit.

Neither can they when you come and gush out your arousal. Neither can they when he switches the dildo with his cock, raises you in the air and fucks you so hard, whispering little praises and sweet little nothings—“I’m getting you used to taking it from behind, my love. You’re doing so good. You’re so beautiful. So damn pretty.”—that you and he both, completely and wholly, fall apart when you come together.

He loves you dearly enough that he can’t stop falling apart even in the shower.

He tells you of the demon living in his chest.

“When we’re together, I feel you healing me. I feel you giving me chances to live on with my life, do the things I’m scared of or wary of. Like today, when you didn’t believe me when I’d told you you were beautiful. I felt that fear I had in me for years, but saying it to you made it seem like nothing. There used to be a girl I was in love with. Whenever I would tell her things like this, she’d scrunch up her nose. It wasn’t enough for her. Her pride was too big for my words. I kept giving and giving and it was never enough. But when I give to you, you take it and you live with it and I can see it on you. I can see you wear it proudly. I can even see it now. And it’s so beautiful. So healing.”

You kissed his scars. Kissed his hands. His neck. Washed him clean. Hugged him under the hot downpour of the shower. Reminded him of the way he healed you. Told him all the small details he never knew—and it only proved his words, tightened his love for you.

He knows from this moment on that you will be the mother of his children. He’s not letting you go. Not until the day he dies.

And the first shower he shared with you… Jungkook sketched it down that very night as you and him sipped on wine, listening to music. And he brimmed with the longing to bring it onto a canvas. Splatter it with colors. Purples and reds, with tiny hints of yellow that are about to appear on your body.

And he will. Hang it up in this very cabin. The eternal keepsake of the movie that his life has become.

It has been several months of living this cinematic life with you. Weekends spent at the cabin, the weekdays spent separately, save for the regular dates. Dinners, trips, sight-seeing. A slow life filled with brand new art supplies, a pile of sketchbooks adorning the walls of his bedrooms. Both at his own apartment and the cabin. And another adornment has come to live with you and him, one of life-long permanency.

He sealed your exclusive relationship with a matching tattoo.

“Sweet” lines your left rib whereas “Heart” lines his—right above the mole you’ve come to love so much. Red ink, an illusion to your red roses, the dress you’ve worn for him on several occasions. Visiting him out of the blue in the middle of the week with black lingerie underneath and a trench coat to cover you up. Mindlessly at the cabin one weekend when drinking wine, smoking together on the balcony, listening to the whispers of the willow tree. And once on the last warm day of autumn, during which he paid you back for the way you had pushed him into the water of the pond. Just like he’d done the first time, he tossed you in, joining you right after, fucking you in the dress. He had eternalized it that very night, sitting by an easel. Paintings of you, some of both you and him, hang on the walls of the cabin. In the living room, in the bedroom. Everywhere one looks, one finds the scenes of your movie—and it brings him joy unlike any other.

Yoongi… he hadn’t called you since that fateful day. You’d made the arrangements to see him after a month or so. Found out he was seeing a therapist.

Quite literally.

He’s banging his male therapist.

The information enveloped you in a dimmed glow. You were shocked, first and foremost, because you had no idea Yoongi liked men. Jungkook did, so it wasn’t a surprise to him—what was more of a groundbreaking surprise to him was the fact you didn’t know. That he never cared to tell you.

And he never pushed it aside. As a matter of fact, he told him off about it the first time he saw him after everything.

Yoongi cared very little because he considered the chapter finished. A similar light swathed him tautly, one he’d never seen on him, and Jungkook agreed. The chapter is finished. No need to get all hot again.

Yoongi forgave him. Found love. Found healing. But he didn’t maintain his relations with you. Neither did he with Jungkook.

And while it hurt for a little while, Jungkook figured that maybe it was meant to be like this all along.

He and you. A singularity.

The nonexistent gap between the word sweetheart.

No third party.

BACK to masterlist

#jungkook x oc #yoongi smut #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 #yoongi x oc #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine

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yourstrulynix · 1 year

Text

god is a woman || cl16

social media!au | charles leclerc x singer!reader

synopsis; celebrity sweetheart and f1 dream boy leave the internet spiralling face claim; ariana grande

voguemagazine

liked by chanelofficial, flowerbomby/n, livelaughlove, nicolapeltz and 983,232 others

tagged: yourusername

voguemagazine a teaser for the y/n l/n march 2021 vogue cover next month. the young singer continues to take over the world, one record breaking record at a time. with continuous yearly grammy nominations and wins, y/n has become the top name in music. she sat down with vogue for an intimate interview in her own home to show the side away from performances and award shows. we can't wait for you to see and read about the beauty inside and out of the young superstar

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yourusername i loved every minute of it x

voguemagazine thanks for having us 🤍

flowerbomby/n what an absolute icon ✨ i can't wait to read about her new album she's been working on!

mimiy/nlove we our literally watching this woman make history! i just want her to have the world 🥺

yourusername

liked by zendaya, f1, y/nfandom, dualipa, ellemagazine and 6,140,885 others

yourusername hope i don't have helmet hair ;p

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bellahadid see you next week in Monaco my love!

f1worlds stfu is y/n going to the grand prix next week because i seriously might pass away????

leclercmania there's no way my two worlds are colliding right now 🤯!

y/nsflower what a queen 👑

scuderiaferrari we can't wait to have you with us next week 🏎️

fangirl21 wtf is a ferrari account doing in y/n's comments??

hoefory/n all the comments are freaking over our girl going to some f1 race? don't understand the hype 🙄

f1paddocknews

liked by f1fandom, charlesheart, ferrariboys, papayared, y/nsslut and 2,734 others

f1paddocknews the ferrari boys after qualifying today, speaking to y/n l/n and charles looked very smitten 🥰

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papayared charles is absolutely fangirling inside!!

charlesleheart he didn't even look at Charlotte like that and they were together for 2 years 🤭

ferrariloves i can't wait to see pictures of y/n in the paddock - greatest race weekend everrrrrrr

yourusername

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location: monaco

yourusername brb moving to monaco and marrying an f1 driver

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f1 it's official, we've made her an f1 fangirl 🙌🏼

yourusername it's true, i'm obsessed

scuderiaferrari we've got just the man for you y/n 😉😏

ferrariboys not ferrari admin setting up charles and y/n - iconic

lewishamilton lovely seeing you this weekend, looking forward to seeing you in silverstone 👍🏾

hammy4life lewis what you doing here????

daydreamingy/n isn't he like 10 years older than our girl 😧

charlesheart16 charles with the sneaky follow and like....

Twitter

charles_leclerc

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charles_leclerc a good few days by the sea and in the outback before the season begins 🌊

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danielricciardo man...that is definitely not the outback

pierregasly dropping a quick shirtless insta to keep them interested 😉

pierregaslyyyy22 pierre knows something we don't....

yourbestfriend I'm offended you called utah the outback

charles_leclerc and you called monaco france - we're even

yourusername

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yourusername hot summer nights mid july when you and i were forever wild ♡

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lanadelray you beautiful girl 🖤

yourusername i love you 🤍

tchalamet it's mid january

yourusername i'll shave your head chalamet

landonorris very violent....

yourusername watch those curls norris

girlcrushy/n eh...who is that fine man ???

charlesbabygirl i recognise those calves....🫢😮

boychuckleclerc no it can't be?? there's no way...

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location; marseille, france

yourusername oh la la

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charles_leclerc

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location; marseille, france

charles_leclerc it was a weekend of ups and downs. we had pole position in the bag but I made a mistake on lap 19 and it cost us a win. i had great company with me to bring the ups. we'll keep working on things before the final race of the summer 👊

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carlossainz55 tough luck today but as you say, we'll come back fighting 🔥

scuderiaferrari our boys have got this!! off to hungary next

ferrariboys22 excuse me, sir? how dare you throw this at us after everything we've been through today 😡

f1girlie charles with the soft launch but who that with him???

yourusername 30 mins ago

side note; part ii will be out soon x

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc social media au #f1 imagine #f1 social media au #f1 fanfic #charles leclerc instagram edit #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fluff #ariana grande #social media!au #f1 fandom #ferrari boys #f1

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heavencanbeaprisontoo · 4 months

Text

Living with Arthur Headcanons

Warnings: Mildly suggestive, references to PTSD, period-typical toxic masculinity. Angst and Fluff ahead.

Relationship Hcs

Arthur is the sort of man that wants to appear to the world as strong and confident, because that benefits him a lot in his line of work. The men that answer to him fear him. As they should. Arthur Shelby is not a man to be messed with or teased without great caution. However, Arthur is simultaneously very sensitive and gentle. He reminisces about the past and longs for a kind future for himself. Arthur is also a man with wounds and scars he can’t quite close. So, it goes without saying that loving Arthur means to love two men at once.

The Arthur who comes home to you on “a bad day,” is a man who melts in your arms. He comes through your door some days and just holds you. He can worry you a lot on days like those. Where he cries and can’t stop. Arthur just needs you so badly and he despises how useless it leaves him. All you can do is undress him and draw a bath for him. Depending on his state, you’ll join him and help him wash before helping him off to bed.

He never means to rely on you like this. Arthur hates how his mind and it's jagged edges dig into you. You have shared many talks at night about "where his head is at." Tommy often comes up. And it is often Tommy that causes fights between you two. Arthur wants to be a family man and move to the country, but he won't. Not so long as Tommy needs him. And Tommy always needs him. But he put him in positions where he could be sent to prison for life, or where Arthur could be killed. The worst fights end with Arthur storming out of the house and coming back to you with bloody knuckles and a night where, "Nothing much," happened.

When you fight, Arthur is the one who apologizes first. Usually with flowers or a box of sweets. He likes to explain the entire process he went through to get the peace offering to buy himself time before saying, "I was wrong for that, yeah," or "I don't always do right, but I want to. I do."

Arthur wants to keep you clean from all the things he does for the family. He doesn't know what he would do if you were hurt.

Domestic Hcs

Arthur is completely helpless in the kitchen. He was totally content buying a meal or eating butter on toast. Coming home to you cooking was a welcome surprise. His own mother didn’t try to cook. Even if the meal you make is simple, or even burnt, Arthur will praise it like it’s the greatest thing anyone’s ever made ever. If you were to have guests over and they insulted you, Arthur would physically remove them from the house unless they were family.

You knew that Arthur’s trust for you was absolute when he asked you to help him shave. The first time you put the straight razor to his throat, you were terribly nervous. His eyes were closed, and his body relaxed. You carried on with his shave and from then on he only went to you for that task. It became a part of your routine, and a way to reinforce his trust in you.

There are things that happen in your home that Arthur will never confess to. His pride won’t let him. One of these things is that he paints your nails for you. Neither of you can recall who suggested it. Arthur’s hands are so steady and he gets to focused, he paints your nails far better than you can. In a way, you think it might be his way of repaying you for his clean shaves.

Arthur likes to watch you get dressed in the mornings, which isn’t always sexual for him… but it usually is. A part of his attraction comes from knowing that only he gets to see you this way. No makeup, messy hair, groaning and clumsy as you try to get ready for the day. There’s something hypnotizing about watching you do your morning routine. How you stretch from the bed and bring your nightgown over your head. The way your hair tumbles over your shoulders, the messiness of it. He would love to record the way you say, “G’morning love,” with that rasp to your voice that sleep gives it. It is a common thing with Arthur to pull you back to bed when you say that.

He likes to make moments at home last. They make him feel at peace. They make him feel clean. Though he sometimes worries that all he's done is smear the blood from his hands to your pure soul.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders headcanon #peaky blinders x reader #arthur shelby #Arthur Shelby x reader #arthur shelby imagine

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sunflowhamato · 2 months

Text

ROTTMNT Curiosities Part.5

The ideas of making and ending the series through IDW comic would be easy to do

If the series is picked up, the tone of Rise would remain the same

Some chapters discarded were the following, (I took the information from

where it will be more complete, in case you want to read it)

Wedding Smashers: Ghostbear marries his fiancé Ghostpepper, a Chupacabra yokai. Raph and Mikey crash their wedding dressed as their aliases Shadybug and Dr. Rude.

Dog Dale Afternoon: April finds out that Baba Yaga cursed Dale to be a werewolf, but he doesn't know what's happening to him, Donnie shows up to “help him,” and be his doctor.

Shred Dead Redemption: Screenwriter Sheldon Vella shared the first board of his showing the brothers chasing the cupcake van called Fire and Icing in Turtle Tank. Unfortunately, a piece of cardboard (Donnie's cloaking device) blocking the front windshield causes the Tank to crash gracelessly into a Lou Jitsu poster.

Warren Stone 2: Warren Stone is cut in half again, but this time the lower half of him becomes a different Warren sporting a beard and shaved head. Warren Stone II ends up becoming a competent and dangerous enemy for the turtles. Realizing that Warren is upset, Warren II has taken his title of "The Turtles' Greatest Enemy", April helps Warren regain his charm.

Gourd Almighty: A comedic episode about Donnie trying to grow the world's largest pumpkin for a contest.

T-Hex: It was going to be about Mikey wanting a robotic toy with a "boopable snoot." After getting the toy he turns out to be not as innocent as he seems.

Lost Goat: Draxum leaves after having a fight with the family (Turtles and Splinter). As he does so, he is abducted by the foot. While trying to rescue Draxum, the family has no choice but to resolve their issues regarding him.

Goyles just wants to have fun: Huggin and Muggin are confused when they find Draxum working in a school cafeteria. Draxum asks Leo and Donnie to help improve his image so as not to lose the respect he once had for the Goyles.

Rampaging Raph: Raph comes to Draxum for help after getting trapped in his enormous mystical form. He is ashamed of not having mastered his mystical powers like his brothers. Draxum ends up splitting Raph and his mystical power, which then becomes a problem when the Red Hulk turns red and begins crushing the city, getting stronger with each hit. To save the city, Raph has to confess and ask his brothers for help.

The Island of Dr. Noe: Hunter/dentist Dr. Noe kidnaps Raph and Leo and takes them to his home island. The doctor wants Raph's tooth in his tooth collection.

Toddler Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mikey becomes the oldest when his siblings turn into little turtles after being attacked by an immortal mutant jellyfish bank robber. 163.There is a small chance that Such TMNT and Rise exist at the same time. 164.Production ties were a little over a year from premise. About 8 weeks from premise to draft record, about 12 for a storyboard, 8 for final animation, with design happening all the time. 6 months for full animation, music, etc. 165. You always interacted a lot with the design team when writing 166.Here is the board with the episodes of the series (in season 2), although some are jokes 167.Although Netflix supported Rise for the movie, it is not Ron or Russ's decision whether the series will continue or not, but they want it to continue supporting 168. The best way to support Rise is to keep watching, posting and spreading the word for the show

#rottmnt leo #rottmnt raph #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt april #rottmnt cassandra jones #rottmnt casey jr #rottmnt splinter #rottmnt draxum

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lunaevangeline · 2 years

Text

"Sweetheart—"

"What is it, Gojo?"

Lying comfortably, your gaze doesn't shift to his presence that weighing the bed. One of your best friends sent a video of her cute puppy, with round black eyes and short snow-white fur. He runs actively here and there, wagging his small tail adorably.

"It's Satoru, not Gojo," your lover whines. His hands grip your waist possessively as if the puppy on the screen will snatch you away. Specifically, it has already snatched away your attention from him.

You've always wanted a puppy (perhaps a cat sounds nice too) but now that you catch his look with your peripheral vision, you feel like you don't need one. He already looks similar to a lost puppy.

You put your phone away, and you can see how Gojo is pouting. His snow-like hair is disheveled and his blue eyes gleam innocently, reflecting the blue-aqua color. You can catch a hint of his clean scent and after-shave. You wonder in this state, he looks younger than his age.

He is aware of how you hold back your laugh at his antics. Gojo feeling threatened by a small-harmless puppy won't be a great thing to talk about in front of his students or his opponents, they would probably laugh their butt off at that fact. He is losing his pride.

"What?" He asked in offense though you haven't said a word.

You hum lowly, "Nothing."

Your hand ruffles his soft mane. He relaxes and unconsciously rubs his face on your palm as you reach out to caress his cheek.

His grip on your waist eases, leading to his digits tracing your spine soothingly and playing with your locks. He knows when it comes to you he's really touch starved and he gives up on this fact.

Because your touch is hypnotizing, stronger than any spell. The lingering scent of your shampoo and body lotion is enchanting. To look into your eyes is something he never gets tired of.

Then you swiftly pull him closer, grazing your lips against his cheek before snuggling into his embrace.

"How unfair," you can hear his voice echo as his cheek and nose warm up in the cold weather.

Love is the most twisted curse, he theorized. Yet he didn't fully aware until he experienced it himself. He closes his eyes and all he can feel is your presence. All of his senses are very sensitive to you, every movement counts and he isn't sure if the sound of a heartbeat is coming from you or him. Holding you in his arm, his chest full with a warm-fuzzy feeling — like when he watches cherry blossoms bloom in spring or the changing color of the leaves in autumn, while wearing his favorite sweater.

Looking into the pair of your irises, he can redefine what it means to be limitless, to go beyond infinity. Your love is liberating, it sets him free. Every moment he spends with you is worthwhile, the mundane things you do keep him sane.

He wastes no time to claim you, pressing his soft lips against yours. Your hands tug on his hair and he angles your face as he pulls you closer. With even breaths and a calm pace, his kisses are soft and velvety. You melt in every little kiss. He could spend hours holding you like this, all the while pouring his passion and emotions.

Gojo Satoru has a good sense and self-awareness. He feels he must be crazy to fall this hard for you, in a world where death haunts you every second; when betting his life is a part of his job. But being with you always gives him a sense of being normal in every aspect, because you look at him not as a great sorcerer, without an excessive expectation to fulfill. You look at him thoroughly and embrace it. It feels somewhat unfamiliar and nice.

When you head up "I love you, Satoru" before you fall into a deep slumber in his embrace, he feels he has the greatest curse and blessings.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff

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queenimmadolla · 6 months

Note

If penny made things for eddie, reader and wayne for christmas, what would she make for them?

Eddie gets a necklace. It’s one of those beaded ones, pretty colors Penny selected. She’s much too little to make them on her own—they’re still a choking hazard for her so you help her make it for him, and while you initially wanted to correct her spelling, you figured it’d mean more to Eddie if it was authentically Penny. So he sports the colorful beaded necklace that says ‘Ded’ and flaunts it around like it was the most expensive and precious of all his jewelry.

You get a scrapbook, which Eddie helped her with. It’s filled with pictures Penny took (so they’re definitely not good) with disposable cameras Eddie would give her. The pictures pertain to you and your family, with some very up close and personal photos of Penny’s face which she took by accident. There’s blurred pictures of you walking past her, a picture of you on the phone, but smiling for her since she’d demanded it, a picture of Eddie grinning at her from the sink where he’d been shaving his face, another photo of you at the stove preparing dinner, a picture of her baby brother face down on his little mat during tummy time, a blurred picture of you and Eddie exchanging a kiss, a close up of her baby brother Wayne’s alarmed face, a close up of her grandpa Wayne’s alarmed face (she does not respect boundaries), Uncle Dustin looking annoyed in the time out chair, Uncle Lucas giving the camera a grin and shaka 🤙🏿 during a Hellfire session, Eddie in full DM mode during said Hellfire session, and more plus plenty photos of you napping.

It’s very touching to see the world from her perspective 🥹

Grandpa Wayne (i dont know if you meant grandpa Wayne or Wayne jr) gets a World’s Greatest Grandpa mug and another bracelet, though Penny couldn’t spell Grandpa and once again you thought it would be more cherished if it were 100% Penny so you bite your tongue when the only letter she puts amongst the beads is a ‘U’ and heart.

And she just ‘gifts’ Baby Wayne one of the pacifiers she stole from him earlier on in preparation for Christmas.

#$ replies #pennyverse #pennyverse asks #dad!eddie munson

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tabbedtabby · 4 months

Text

i bet on losing dogs

johanna mason x fem reader

summary: After Johanna fails her Block exam to participate in the invasion of the Capitol, you go say your farewells to her, bearing a gift.

a/n: i haven’t posted on tumblr since like 2021 so sorry if this looks ugly LMAO idk how to be aesthetic on here. anyway if you have any thoughts lmk!

cw: angst, not proofread

words: 1.9k

————————————————————————

Your hands fumble with the bulletproof vest covering you as you exit the Block. You have passed your personal assessment, it seems. The one that decides whether you’re fit enough to storm the Capitol with the rest of the victors; well, considering they pass it, too. The Block throws you into a simulated version of what a battle in the Capitol would be like, and personally preys on the weakness of each person who enters. So, in your case, it was fully checking an area before entering it. You’re not the most careful person in the world, you’ll admit.

You take the vest off, and see only a handful more soldiers waiting for their assessment, including Katniss. You had trained with her. She fought hard for this, and you know how badly she wants to go to the Capitol herself. You know how she feels. You, too, are a victim of Snow’s treachery.

You glance around, searching for Johanna. She’s pretty easy to spot, with the shaved head and everything. So when you don’t see her, you frown. She’d gone in only a couple more people before you did, but you don’t remember seeing her leave the Block, either. There is one face you recognize, though. Haymitch. You assume he’s waiting for Katniss, but when he walks up to you, you realize you’re mistaken.

“Johanna’s back in the hospital.”

“What?”

You ask the question, but you’re not really waiting for an explanation. You’re already shoving past everyone to get to the elevator. Of course. Johanna’s greatest weakness. They flooded the streets during her assessment.

When the elevator door opens into the hospital sector, you already know where to look. Johanna’s sitting up in a hospital bed, her eyes wide and her chest rising and falling rapidly. They must have stripped her of her soldier uniform, because she’s back in the same hospital gown she was given when rescued from the Capitol. What little hair she’s managed to grow from then until now is damp and spiky, and your suspicions are confirmed.

When Johanna sees you, your heart almost shatters. You’ve never seen her so empty of life. Not even when she’d first came back from the Capitol. She’s completely stripped of her anger, her abrasiveness, her bold personality. All that’s left is fear.

You don’t say anything to her. You just sit down at the foot of her bed. She wouldn’t want your pity, you know this. Instead, your hands close around something in the pocket of your pants. Something you’ve been meaning to give to Johanna, and there couldn’t be a better moment than now, now that you’ll be storming the Capitol without her.

“Here.” you say, your hand extending towards her. She stares blankly at you for a moment, almost certainly pumped full of morphling.

Johanna’s hands unfurl the handkerchief to reveal a set of rusted golden earrings shaped like little suns. Your mother’s. The only fine thing you’d ever owned before becoming a victor that you could never bring yourself to sell. The things that comforted you while being hunted in the arena, and again when you were reaped a second time for the Quarter Quell. Your lifeline at one point.

Her eyes glisten over with tears, but she quickly squeezes them shut. “I can’t take these, (Y/N).” she croaks out.

“Yes, you can, stupid. I’m giving them to you,” you tell her gently, a small smile on your lips as you stare into Johanna’s eyes. Even on the morphling, her eyes are filled with emotion.

“She died a long time before the rest of my family. I don’t need them anymore.” you don’t mention how there’s a good chance you might die in the Capitol, and you want those earrings to be passed on to someone else you care about. And the fact that Johanna has nothing to her name except District 13’s depressing dark green jumpsuit makes you feel sad.

“He has to die.” Johanna responds after a couple of minutes, her voice still hoarse. But she doesn’t say it with her normal ferocity. The contact with her method of torture has truly broken her.

“I know. Katniss is going to kill him, Johanna.” you say, placing one of your hands over hers. She stares up at you.

“And then… we’ll be free. Forever. We’ll go to District Seven and do whatever we’d like for the rest of our stupid lives. Get some real food. These bland-ass meals here are killing me,” you joke, and that makes the corner of Johanna’s mouth twitch up. But you can sense her considering your offer, too. Of course, she was always going to go home to District 7, but she can’t deny the idea of you coming with her excites her. Someone to fill that lonely old house that has gone so long without another resident besides herself.

Johanna’s hand clutches around the fabric that holds your parting gift. You squeeze her other hand, cold and damp. You don’t mind warming her up.

But there’s something in the air that neither of you address. That looming reality that you may not come back. Neither you nor Johanna have spoken about how you felt about each other, but you’re all each other has at this point. You share a room here in District 13 and hold each other through nightmares when they inevitably come each night. But that’s about the extent of how far your relationship has gone.

Before you think about it, you lean down and press your lips onto hers. Admittedly, you’ve wanted to for months now. But nothing could compare to how it felt in reality. Although brief, the feeling of her soft and faintly warm lips sends goosebucks running up your neck. Johanna’s lips are a wet and warm abyss that you never want to escape. You are forced to pull away anyway.

“Damn, brainless,” Johanna whispers, the hint of a smirk on her lips. You can’t stop the grin that spreads onto your face. She sounds more like her old self. Sarcastic. Witty. When you look into those deep green eyes, you know she will be able to put herself back together again. Just as she has done before, again and again. She has rebuilt herself into the woman you’re afraid you’ve fallen in love with as you stare into those eyes.

Almost on queue, the hospital quarter’s door opens, revealing a sympathetic looking Katniss and Finnick. Katniss holds a small bundle of something in her hands, and you realize they’ve come to say their own farewells to Johanna. The four of you have become somewhat of friends after going through training together.

Katniss’ gift ends up being a wad of pine needles to remind Johanna of home, which receives an emotional response from Johanna. She misses District 7 badly. You promise yourself the minute that Snow is dead, you will take her home. Home to the thick trunks of the trees and the sound of pine needles crunching under sturdy boots.

Eventually, you realize you need to get going. Katniss and Finnick have finished their goodbyes, and are already heading towards the door. You give Johanna one last look as you follow them out.

“I’ll see you soon.” you say, flashing her a promising smile before the door closes behind you.

Finnick was right. The last thing you thought of was her lips.

——

Bright green leaves rustle lightly, their branches flickering across the sky. The wind flows through them effortlessly, causing the deep emerald forest to appear alive in its movements. Birdsong ricochets on the sturdy trunks of the trees, filling the canopy with the hopeful sound of music.

One of the birds flitters down to the rock in front of where Johanna sits, its tiny feet hopping on the smooth gray. Its black, beady eyes stare up at her in question before launching back up into the leaves.

This is where she spends most of her days. Sitting at the base of a tree, head leaned back. Staring up into where the leaves catch the sunlight. Watching as the sun moves across the sky before it sets beyond the horizon. Only then does she take the trek back home.

She still lives in the Victor’s Village in District 7. After all, where else was she supposed to go? She yearned for her home. Even more so after your promise to go back with her once the war ended. How it was foolish of her to believe she’d ever share those walls with another body again. Snow took her family. She never truly came to terms with it, but it had been long enough that she could stand to be in that house again without reliving it all. That conversation after she’d become a victor, and the consequences that came soon after. It stung like a rotting wound every time she entered her own home. It was hard to sleep knowing she lived in a murder site.

Johanna tried, she really did. She tried not to let herself love again. Because as soon as she did, Snow’s offer would be on the table again. And this time, she would know what would happen if her answer was no. It would mean another bleeding body on the floor. Another soul to haunt those walls. More screams to ricochet inside her skull every time she closed her eyes. It would never be worth it. No matter how badly she wanted someone to care about her. Most days it would have helped more than anything to just know that there was someone out there who gave a shit about her.

But she couldn’t help it. Johanna couldn’t help that feeling she got around you. And, damn it, she tried. Lord knows she did. But you were so kind, and more than anything, unafraid. Unafraid of her anger and ferocity. You weren’t scared of her like everyone else; you were curious. You wanted to know Johanna, why she acted the way she did. Not immediately write her off like everyone else. No. You were different.

In the Quarter Quell, she had begun to get to know you. But it wasn’t until Johanna was rescued from the Capitol—she hates that word, rescued—that she began to be truly afraid of what she was feeling. The way her face would get hot every time you’d give her one of those wide, genuine grins that Johanna didn’t know was possible to be found on the face of a victor. She hated the feeling of skin against her own more than anything, but with you, she craved it. That’s when she knew she was in trouble; or rather that you were. Loving Johanna Mason is a death sentence.

And, unfortunately, you were guilty of that crime. Blown up into a million tiny pieces at the hands of the same bomb that killed Katniss’ little sister. She tries to reach out to Johanna. Or rather, she thinks Peeta encourages her to. But she can’t bring herself to answer. Not when Katniss gets the pleasure of living out the rest of her life with Peeta. Johanna doesn’t care if her sister is dead. She’s lost more and still has ended up alone.

So, that’s her fate. She doesn’t try again. To love. To care. Not about other people. Not about anything. But to sit alone under forest canopy, an axe still held firmly in her calloused hands. Some habits are hard to break.

So Johanna rots in that empty house that is too big for her, but too small for her grief, until the large doses of morphling will eventually get to her. She will die alone and unwanted. Her happy ending.

#johanna mason #johanna mason x reader #johanna mason x you #the hunger games #hunger games #hunger games imagine

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notthewriteryourelookingfor · 1 year

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I am shaving off all my hair today!!!

If you can, please donate to the world's greatest shave via my link

https://my.leukaemiafoundation.org.au/cathyhabgood

"Together we can help find a cure and help those who have been impacted by leukaemia"

My hair is around 60cm long and I'll be shaving it down to 4mm!

I can't donate cuz I dye my hair black and its not in the best condition.

Please like and share as much as you can, I'll reblog with the end result and again when the fund-raiser is closed.

#worlds greatest shave #shave it off

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pinkrelish · 2 years

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𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

bestfriend!eddie x fem!reader

✶You left him. You really left him.✶

NSFW — heavy angst, drug/alcohol mention/use, eventual smut, slow burn

chapter: 3/15 [wc: 2.6k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11

AO3

Chapter 3: Tearful Reunion

Gareth, trying to be quiet, held his skateboard over his mouth and asked Jeff, who knew Eddie the longest, “Who’s that?”

Jeff swallowed the candy in his mouth, and picked another from the bag, not taking the chance to blink in case he had to intervene on this reunion. “The girl he told you to never ask about.”

He exhaled an understanding “ah,” and leaned against his car with his friends.

——1982——

The next morning, Eddie woke with a start. A large vehicle drove past his window, hitting every pot hole along the way. The maroon bed sheet he pinned up blocked the sun alright enough, but there was no stopping annoying sounds of everyday life from coming through.

“Jesus,” was his first word he said that day.

Judging by the brightness in his room, it was well past noon, and he figured it was as good a time as any to get out of bed. His sleep was fitful, tossing and turning thinking about your strange mood. But, oh well, at least you’d be going to band practice with him soon. There wasn’t much opportunity to talk while he was playing, but he preferred having you there. It was funner when you sat at the opening of the garage, cheering him and Jeff on as if they were the world’s greatest musicians.

He followed his routine as normal; taking a shower where he washed his hair, shaved, winced at the sting of the aftershave, and ate a small breakfast of whatever he could find while standing across from your birthday cake.

Getting dressed in his usual black jeans and sleeveless shirt, he looked outside and saw your mom’s car was missing. “Nice,” he whispered. If she was gone, he could go over early and hang out before leaving. However, stepping out of his trailer, he was greeted by a dingy brown couch with a ‘FREE’ sign taped to it. Weird. You didn’t mention buying a new one. Though, he supposed he didn’t need to be told every last detail of your life.

Walking the few feet to your home, he sidestepped the ugly couch and knocked by tapping his knuckles thrice, leaning forward in wait, expecting you to open the door any second, or shout for him to come in.

He put his face closer. “Hey, it’s me,” he announced, knocking a bit harder.

No answer.

“Are you not home?” At this point his voice was hardly below the decibel of a yell, using the side of his clenched fist to pound the aluminum obstacle keeping him from seeing if you were okay after breaking down in front of him last night.

No answer came.

Then, the lock gave. The door creaked ajar. A slice of inside revealed to him. Bright, far sunnier than it should be. He called your name. It reverberated back at him, ringing from the studs in the walls. Crisp and hollow. Unnerving. So, he pushed the door wider. An easy effort. There was no pile of shoes wedged behind it anymore.

Devastation was not a single emotion. It was a cluster of confusion; of checking behind him that he didn’t get lost on his way over, of staring at his trailer in a desperate plea to not be real, and retracing his path here, and still denying he walked into your living room. Hopelessness was not a quick heartbreak; it went deeper. Insidious cruelty. Twisting his stomach in knots. More. More. More stabs. A pain unlike any other, and no visible wound. Neverending. An onslaught of information he rejected on instinct.

Sunbeams glared through the curtainless windows, illuminating the stained carpet and its layers of filth no longer hidden under furniture. Catching dust motes swirling in the gust of his labored breath.

In a slow circle, Eddie absorbed the blank walls. The sudden absence of life. The irritating sound of nothing, and the suffocating pressure of loneliness making him question his sanity. But no. His brain was not tricking him. There was no mistake. And by the burn of bile in his throat, he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

Stumbling in a fugue state, errant newspapers littering the floor clung to his shoes on his way to your bedroom. He dodged where the trashcan used to be at the edge of the kitchen as if it were still there. Tripping over his own feet. Gripping the walls to keep upright as he rushed to your smiling face. Your smiling face. This was all a prank, and you were waiting for him–

His heart raced. His vision darkened at the edges.

Difficult to breathe. He couldn’t. Didn’t.

Skin prickling in cold sweat. Shivering. Heaving watery cereal where your bed should be until he crumpled on the spot where he once almost had his first kiss, if he hadn’t been a coward.

On his hands and knees, Eddie raised his head to an infuriating image clinging to your wall like a savior looking down upon him, and he charged. Your Mary Lou Retton poster tore in his hands. Shredded. Piece after piece. And when he ran out of patience, he punched the wall where it once was. Over. And over. One for every opportunity you had to tell him. One for every sign he didn’t grasp. Giving him his clothes back. Crying. Asking for a normal night. Promising him you’d be there for practice tomorrow.

He must have left at some point, because when he next came to, he was grabbing your birthday cake and flying out his door with his arm wound back, hurling his hard work at your trailer.

Pink and white frosting splattered the rocks separating your homes. He didn’t even reach his intended target. It fell pathetically in the middle.

Worse, the plate didn’t even shatter. It mocked him by rolling away.

~~~

The last word Eddie remembered hearing was, “Jesus,” when his uncle rushed into his room to roll him on his side, keeping him from choking on his own vomit, surrounded by empty baggies and bottles.

——1985——

Eddie mumbled something. Distance was irrelevant; you’d recognize the way his mouth formed your name even in a pitch-black abyss. You waited for him to do something.. anything, and for a while, he just stared, taking the time to smoke his cigarette down to the filter, hoarding the nicotine to subdue his initial reaction. Or to give himself the chance to size you up, narrowing his eyes at your gall to stand before him after what you did.

He uncrossed his legs.

You put all your attention into Eddie’s approach, learning much in his short walk to meet you. The unconscious authority he commanded in his stride, earned through charisma alone. New maturity in his jaw line, working the muscles as he ground his teeth, catching the sheen of a pink scar on his chin under the streetlight. The grown out curls framing his face resting on his throat as he fixed his gaze on anything else in the parking lot except for you. How weak you were for the groan his leather jacket made when he rolled his shoulders and flicked the cigarette stub.

He filled his lungs with a deep breath, mulled something over, and shook his head to dismiss whatever it was. “What’re you doing here?” There was a quiet exasperation in his voice. An undercurrent of seething in his otherwise tempered tone. A warble at first, like he wanted the question to come out casually, and gave up pretending he could keep years of pain from influencing how haunted he was by the ghost in front of him.

You wrung the strap of your purse. “I.. I wanted to talk.”

His lower eyelid ticced. Slowly, he drew his eyebrows in a harsh glare at the mall, and for a moment, the corner of his lips lifted in a hateful grin. “Talk?” he scoffed at the audacity. He lit another cigarette. “Now you want to talk?”

Stuffing the carton and lighter in his pocket, he willed himself to acknowledge your presence–still avoiding your face–by dropping his gaze to the golden embroidery on your white and blue tracksuit jacket, pinging the Adidas logo on the opposite side. Your clean Nikes. He read the embroidery again, and his chest fell with a defeated sigh.

Waving the cigarette, he maintained, “Why bother coming back here?”

“Just..” This was seeming like a lost cause. Especially so when you had an audience eavesdropping on your conversation. “Could we talk in the car? I’ll give you a ride home, or wherever.”

Much to your surprise, he went for it. Eddie glanced at your red Ford Pinto, stamped out his cigarette, and walked backwards to the passenger side with his hands in his pockets, addressing his friends, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“See ya,” Jeff said flatly.

Recovering from your stunned expression, you waved at Jeff and didn’t take it personally when he didn’t return the gesture with the same enthusiasm, raising his pinky off his soda can at you in a sort of goodbye.

At the lingering frowns directed at you, you hopped in and started the car, fully aware of the man in a foul mood sitting next to you. “Your place?”

Slouched in his seat, body angled away from you, Eddie stared out the window. “Yeah.”

And that was the end of your conversation for the rest of the ride. At one point you turned on the radio to cut the tension, but when it played Christian gospel, you immediately smacked the button off. In the past he would’ve laughed, made fun of it with you. Not anymore.

Frustration clogged your throat as much as the panic did. Your thoughts were everywhere; an unsortable stack of papers of everything you wanted–and needed–to tell him. So many things to explain. To at the bare minimum fill him in on. But, then again, who could tell if he cared to hear them.

He had his arms crossed, one propped on the other, running his fingernails lightly over his cheek. In a daze watching the shadowed pines tick by. The same woods you would get lost in on purpose as shitty kids with nothing better to do.

You were nearing the trailer park and running out of time. “I don’t know if you remember the meet I had in Ohio before I left–”

“I remember,” he cut you off.

“R-Right,” you stammered. “I.. Well.. Jesus.” Inhaling deep, you got your words out point blank. “There was a woman who approached me. A recruiter for Penn State. I told her I couldn’t afford a place like that, but she winked at me and took my information. A few days later the head coach called me with a plan to move me to Pittsburgh–on the help of his dime–so he could oversee my training during high school, and again, I told him I couldn’t afford college anyway, but he told me to keep an eye out. And, a month later, the NCAA announced they were introducing scholarships for women’s gymnastics, and–”

Eddie groaned. Pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. “You knew you were moving for months and didn’t tell me.”

Shit. He didn’t know that before you ran your mouth, and now no amount of backtracking or apologies could change you forgetting to forge a white lie about the exact timeline things went down.

Turning off the main road, the car rocked on the uneven surface, taking a liking to finding each pot hole. Or maybe you had trouble seeing them as water swelled in your vision. Blood leaked from where you chewed on your inner lip.

You stopped in front of his trailer.

“How long was the drive?”

Not expecting him to speak first, or at all, you studied the side of his face for a moment, appreciating how his features had changed over the years while you processed what he was asking. “It took me about eight hours,” you answered softly.

“Mm,” he grunted. “Sorry you wasted your time.” He pushed the door open and had half his body out by the time you could shout.

“Wait!”

He thought about it. Oh, he thought about it for a long time; paused in his hunched over position about to leave you and never look back. Running his fingers over his palm. Back rising with shallow breaths.

Eddie had his weaknesses as well.

Dragging his foot inside, he sat down, ready to flee with how rigid his posture was and pale his knuckles were gripping the handle.

On the verge of tears, your voice trembled, “You have to understand, I was going nowhere by staying here.” He stared straight ahead, disengaged. “There was no future for me. No education. No money. No Olympics, or whatever the fuck. We sacrificed losing everything to get me to Regionals on the hope someone would see my potential. And it worked. For the first time, someone saw how good I was, and invested in me. They promised me everything I wanted and I took it. I took the chance for a better life and left Hawkins–” You flinched.

Eddie raised his hand. Not to intimidate you, but to silence you. The lights from your dashboard flashed off his rings. He was shaking. And what a tragic point for him to choose now to look at you, when his warm eyes were fearfully cold, and two tears streamed down his already wet cheeks.

“Let’s get one thing straight. You didn’t leave Hawkins.. You left me.” He didn’t wait for you to register the depth of those departing words before he was shoving open the door and slamming it behind him, muffling something he intended no one else to hear, “I said I wouldn’t cry about this bullshit anymore.”

“Eddie!” You fought off your seatbelt and scrambled out the car, hitting the roof with your palm to keep his attention. “Wait! I didn’t mean it like that.”

Almost to his stairs, he slowed. Laced his hands behind his neck. Debated something as he wrung them, making his steps clumsy as he turned around.

Each sentence hurt more than the last.

“Are you glad you visited? Got to see I’m still a failure. A loser going nowhere. Can’t even pass high school or get a real job. Stuck in a trailer park.” He laughed without mirth, shaking free the tears clinging to his jaw. He took the stairs backwards, gaze set on you. “You can go back to your fancy college, now. Your luxuries. Your nice clothes. Your friends. Your boyfriend. Leave this place, and me, behind. Have a good life.” In the midnight hour, you listened to him slam several more doors, and the sudden start of loud music from his bedroom.

On autopilot, you drove away. Shut down and drove away without crying. A trauma response you learned early on. Emotions could be suppressed. Smothered in the lungs until you were far away, swerving over the lines in the road as your body was struck with a sob. And another. Crying so hard you couldn’t tell which parking lot you turned into. Hugging yourself, pulling the collar of your jacket to your mouth, shrinking away from the window in shame and releasing all the guilt you pent up.

You deserved this. It was your comeuppance, witnessing the ramifications of your actions storming away from you. You hurt him. He hurt you. And, rightfully so, he never wanted to see you again.

But you were stuck in Hawkins for another day.

Taglist: @xxhospital-for-soulsxx @myfavoritesareproblematic @henhouse-horrors @tlclick73 @sidthedollface2

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson angst #eddie x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #stranger things fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you

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