#they do for white but story’s eyes aren’t white they’re gold
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hi look at my boy I love him a lot
#bg3#story the tiefling#the one thing I wish they had an option for no iris gold eyes#they do for white but story’s eyes aren’t white they’re gold#so black sclera gold iris is the next best thing#also the horn color thing. which they fixed today. which I wish meant that next time I boot up his horns will be black#but I know it just means that any tieflings made moving forward will have the right color#this has been a post
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Crowley chose to make a statement with his outfit when he goes to investigate Heaven. Crowley has always cared about what he looks like. He always tries to fit in with the humans that he is around. There are times when he misses the mark like in Rome. But in Heaven, all of the changes he makes have a purpose. It’s a drastic difference to his normal clothes. Almost all of it changes. He changes his hair. He paints his nails gold even adds a gold tooth. His snake tattoo, a symbol that defines who he is, he covers with a sticker. All of the changes are telling a story to any angel who dares to look closely at the demon in midst
The most basic of changes tell the angels what he thinks about them. He makes his normal outfit light in color to blend in. His hair is no longer styled, but pushed out of his face. He’s wearing white flip-flops. He makes it look like he’s the CEO who’s pissed off that he had to come in on his vacation. The entire outfit is lounge wear. He’s telling them what he thinks about them. Even though, they are supposed to be good and fighting evil, they really aren’t. They are never shown making a good difference to the world, besides Azirphale, who Crowley has always separated from the heavenly bureaucracy. A golden tooth is seen as a symbol of wealth, but it also is a symbol of status. There are places where healthy teeth have been shaven down to cover a heathy tooth to show wealth and status. Almost like angels who cared were wore away to nothing to their status. Worn down to only care about their status.
The Serpent of Eden... Crowley’s tattoo always makes itself known. If his sideburns are longer, the snake moves out from under them. When he goes into Heaven, he covers it with an identical, but gold sticker. It seems as though Crowley can’t change the tattoo or just miracle it away. The snake refuses to be hidden or changed. Crowley refuses to be hidden or changed. He uses the glasses in the same way. Dark glasses in Heaven would be suspicious since they avoid any dark colors in their outfits since the demons do the opposite. He could have tried contacts, but he chose rose-colored glasses. Dark enough to slightly cover his eyes upon a quick glance. “When you look at some through rose-colored glasses all the red flags just look like flags.” (Bojack Horseman) Instead of making his glasses opaque and hiding the snake somehow, Crowley lets the angels know who he is. He makes sure that any angel who walks by and looks through his rose colored glasses will notice that his eye have slits. If they just pay attention, they’ll notice that the serpent of Eden is in Heaven and he’s doing what he always does: asking questions. He shows them that there is a murder hornet in their hive. Because there’s one thing that Crowley will never be again, can never be again, doesn’t even want to be again, and that’s another bee.
But what does that have to do with the watch? The watch is the one thing that he doesn’t change at all. That is the one thing that didn’t change in the Fall. He never lost his connection to time. He never lost that ability. It was the one major part of who he was that was the same as the angel he was before. A serpent who still knew how to manipulate them. So he doesn’t change the watch, because that ability, manipulating the sands of time that was so vital in creating the stars, was not taken away him when the rest of his divinity was.
So when Crowley waltzes back into Heaven, he tells them. He shows everything off. He tells them exactly who he is, if only they’d get over their own hypocrisy to look close enough. He wears clothes that look like theirs except its ‘lounge’ wear to show that he thinks they’re lazy. He wears his glasses but he makes them sheer enough so that an angel could still see his eyes. He puts a golden identical snake sticker over his tattoo so that would know that he was there still. He leaves his watch black. The one part of him that is truly his that he never questioned. That part of him that was a birthright that was not taken away and that Hell could never say they owned. The one piece of himself that was never manipulated. Even when he goes back into the place that abandoned him, he refuses to let himself, even if it’s just a disguise, be truly changed.
#good omens#good omens 2#crowley#aziraphale#good omens spoilers#ineffable husbands#go2#meta#meta analysis#does this make sense?#in essence#he was trolling them#david tennant#michael sheen
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Sweetie; part 1
Bob Floyd x F! Reader “Sweetie”
18+ minors please do not interact :)
(Bob gives me soft-dom vibes and this is a reflection of that feeling)
Series with @blimpintime, go check out the Jake "Hangman" Seresin x F!Reader story they’re writing, our stories are intertwined :) !!!!
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I pull my “uniform” out of my employee locker and slam the door to get it to shut. I sigh, this is what I get for picking up extra shifts, 8am private tours of Elite Naval Aviators. I really hope they aren’t a group of cocky old men ready to call me condescending names. I slide my thin vest over my clothes. Of course, I’d choose a pale blue tank top to go under a white crochet swimsuit cover. I was just glad I chose jeans today instead of a skirt, I didn't need more harassment than I already got. I button the vest at my stomach and pick my coffee up off the break room table. My early morning pick me up definitely helped make this shift more livable. I set it back down and make my way through the door leading to the hangar.
I can see the aviators milling about through the glass lobby doors, luckily I spot a woman or two among them and none of them looked old enough to cat call. I walk quickly to the doors, checking my watch, 7:53am, right on time. I walk towards the doors and turn the lock.
“Hello!” I say, trying to sound cheery and awake, “Welcome to the Naval Air Museum, Hanger four; the Cold War.”
The group gathers around and a few of them smile at me and one man with glasses gives a shy wave. I feel an abnormal heat spread at the back of my neck. I knew I was touring Aviators today but I didn't expect so many of them to be attractive. Actually all of them were attractive.
I force a smile, “Here at the museum all of the employees go by callsigns, mine is Sweetie and I'll be your guide today.” A few of the group chuckle and my neck heats up from the attention. “I’ll be taking you around and showing you planes from each decade of the cold war. Feel free to ask me questions at any time and I will try my best to answer them. If you have further questions, you can always scan the QR codes on the displays for more information.”
Reciting the memorized script eased my nerves. I asked the group to follow me and I made my way through the tour, stopping at key planes to describe their uses or pilots or any of the many, many boring details of their reason for being in a museum. I saw a few of the group yawn on occasion and some had stopped to read other planes' descriptions. There was one person who kept their eyes trained on me, the same man who had waved at me in the lobby. He was tall and lean with wavy dirty blond hair. He wore thin gold glasses that suited his face. He wore a vintage t-shirt tucked into well fitted jeans. He had a worn blue carhartt jacket and he looked absolutely stunning.
I stumbled over my monologue about the F-15 and he smiled at me and gave an encouraging nod. I feel my face turn red at his attention. I'm about to finish my tour when I spot a woman walking between the exhibits, drink in hand and two kids running ahead of her, one with a tablet and the other with a bag of chips as big as their head.
“Excuse me ma’am, this section of the museum is closed for a private tour until nine.” I say politely. She turns quickly on her heel and looks me up and down. My stomach drops, one of those huh.
“I paid to be here,” she looks at my name tag and scoffs, “Sweetie.”
I smile with my teeth gritted and try to remain courteous, “Im sure you did ma’am but there was a sign posted out front saying this section is closed. We have plenty of other wonderful hangars open to the public.”
She rolls her eyes and places a hand on her hip defiantly, “Don’t ma’am me young lady. I will go wherever I please as long as I’m a paying customer.”
Her grating voice attracts the attention of the pilots, a few start to move in closer to see what the commotion is. “Ma’a- Miss, I’m sorry this tour is a special request from-” I start.
“I don’t care who's ‘special request it was’, I've been sitting in the car with those two,” she gestures to her two kids running between the planes, “for five hours. So I’d like to enjoy the museum that I paid to see.”
I open my mouth to say something else, getting frustrated, when I hear the door to my left slam open. I hear a voice echo through the hangar, “I know someone is not yelling at my employee at eight in the fucking morning.” It's my manager, Dynamite.
“Oh, Dynamite you’re-” I start before she holds her hand up to me. I stand there shocked as Dynamite lays into the woman escorting him towards the door. I see one of the pilots, the muscular blond one, lean over to his friend and murmur, “That's hot.”
Dynamite, returns to the group and smiles professionally, “Sorry about that y’all. I hope you enjoy the rest of your tour with our Sweetie here.” She gives me a gentle pat on the shoulder, “If anyone has any questions at all let me know, I’ll be over here figuring out paperwork at the side desk.” She points to a desk with the sign “Need help?” hanging off it., before making her way over, quickly tailed by the murmuring blond.
“Sorry about the interruption folks. We have mostly concluded our tour. If you'd like to walk around we still have about fifteen minutes left.I’ll be over by the info desk if you have any more questions.” I smile at the group and make my way over to the info desk. I began to organize the leaflets that the Karens kids had strung everywhere. I’m so focused on my work that I don’t notice the bespectacled man approach. He cleared his throat soft and I jumped, almost dropping the papers I was holding.
“Hey there,” he says quietly.
My face warms and I smile at him, “Hi, did you have any questions?”
He scratches the back of his head and looks at the floor, “Um yea could you tell me about,” he pauses and looks around the planes, “could you tell me more about the F-15?” His cheeks are flush red and so do mine.
“Of course,” I say and lead him back to the plane. “The F-15 here has a wingspan of about 42 feet and ten inches, she runs on two electric turbofan engines, as well as being the first plane to have radar.”
I try to sound excited but I’m slowly running out of facts, I only memorized a few per plane. The tall man trains his eyes on the plane and then looks back at me and asks, “Do you know how fast it can go?”
“Uhh,” I say, “I’m sorry I don’t. I could ask Dyna if you'd like.” I’m a little disappointed that I don't have a reason to keep talking to him.
“Oh,” he smiles down at the floor, “Its top speed is Mach 2.5. I just thought I might as well figure out a reason to talk to you.” I’m a little surprised. His face is red as a beet and adjusts his glasses.
I feel my face heat up and my eyes widen, “To me?”
He chuckles, “Well yea Sweetie, I really enjoyed the tour.”
“I see,” I fiddle with my sleeve and shuffle my feet, “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Most people get pretty bored but there are a few interesting parts.”
“Well I think we just had a really good guide. I’m Bob Floyd by the way,” he extends his hand to me.
I take it and ask,” No call sign?”
He smiles at me, “No, just Bob.”
“Are you a pilot?” I ask, trying to find some reason to keep him talking to me.
He chuckles and rubs his neck, “No, weapons systems. I back seat for Pheonix over there,” he gestures toward a woman with dark hair pulled into a low ponytail. “She flies, I just drop the bombs.”
My mind goes blank trying to think of something else to say, but Bob speaks up before I come up with something embarrassing, “Would you like to show me around again?” I look at him a little surprised and nod making my way around the plane.
“I’m sorry I can't tell you much more about them. Usually people aren’t too interested in asking me questions after the tour.” I smile at him as we walk.
He blushes a bit, “I’ve actually studied most of these. Kinda a hobby of mine.”
“Oh,” I frown at the ground a little, “then why did you want to walk around again?”
He blushes and looks down at the floor, “I thought it was obvious.” he glances at me, “I wanted to walk with you.”
My face turns red and I touch my cheeks, “I see,” I look down at my feet and then back up a Bob. He has his hands shoved into his pockets and his face and ears are dusted pink.
“Well,” I came to a stop and turned toward him, he did the same, “If you wanted to walk with me, I get off at four.” I look up at his surprised expression before he breaks into a grin.
“Really?” he asks, I nod my head. “That sounds like you're asking me on a date,” he gives me a crooked smile.
“Would you like to meet me back here at four then?” I question, “I don’t think I'll need to change,” I say and look down at myself.
“No,” he says suddenly, “uh, no, I mean you look perfect just like that.”
I smile, “Bobby? Are you hitting on me?” My hand goes up to play with one of my necklaces, his eyes follows the movement. A smile tilts his lips again, and his eyes quickly flit down to my body to my shoes and back up, before meeting my eyes again.
“Would you like me not to?” he says softly, “It’s going to be difficult.”
I choke at the boldness of his words. The shy, blushing man had disappeared and this flirty sailor had appeared in his place. Before I can respond he takes a half step closer and I don't want to back away from him. He smiles down at me, his eyes slightly lidded. “After we take a walk, I could take you to dinner.” his smirk gets bigger, “But I have to tell you.” He cranes his neck down to look me in the face, I inhale sharply at his expression.
“I let very few people call me Bobby,” he looks like a starved animal that just found his next meal. He winks, one side of his lip following and a sharp, short click comes from his tongue.
Then he stands straight and steps back, “I’ll see you at four then right Sweetie?” His smile could sweeten tea. At a loss for words I slowly not my head yes.
“I’ll pick you up then,” he says scratching the back of his neck and takes two goofy steps backward knocking into a sign reading ‘No Outside Food or Drink’. I giggle at him and he looks up at me and joins in. He gives an awkward half-salute-half-wave before turning to meet the woman he had named as Phoenix earlier.
When I stop giggling the reality of what just happened sunk in and a heat spread from the back of my neck and around my face. I hurry towards the break room glancing over at Dyna who is still talking to the Blond man who had followed her over.
I bust through the door and open my locker, then shut it. I open it again, glance at the shelves and my bag hanging on a hook and then shut the door again. I lean my back against the door. What the hell was that?
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AN; Hey look at me writing away, part. 2 coming up... sometime. :)
-okay, bye, thanks for reading, love you <3
#minors fuck off#bob floyd#bob floyd x female character#bobfucks#bobfloydisagentleman#top gun maverick#top gun fanfiction#bob floyd smut#tgm smut#top gun fandom#tgm#top gun fic#MoraleBoostSeries#bob floyd fanfiction#robert floyd#Bobby Floyd
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last update 11/4/23
rajinikanth. 70. cis man. he/him. ┊┊ cerberus corp has been watching KINTAN NAIK. some of the public has dubbed them SAPROPHYTE because of FUNGUS MANIPULATION gifted by EATING SOMETHING HE SHOULDN’T HAVE. having been an extra ordinary since 1969, they’re doing a good job at hiding THAT HIS POWER IS WEAK TO FIRE. when they aren’t working their day job as a PHARMACEUTICAL COMPANY CEO, they are fond of SQUASH and are never seen without GOLD PLATED LIGHTER WITH THE WORDS ‘ALWAYS STAY HUMBLE’ ENGRAVED ON THE SIDE. at first glance they seem CHARMING & GENEROUS, though their underlings know them to also be MELODRAMATIC & ARROGANT. they consider themself a ANTI-HERO. ┊┊
001. GENERAL
name: kintan naik | nicknames: the general | age: 70 | date of birth: 1953 | zodiac answer | place of birth: - | current residence: manhattan | gender: cis man | pronouns: he/him | sexuality: gay | occupation: pharmaceutical company ceo | faceclaim: rajinikanth | height: 5'7" | tattoos: n/a | piercings: both ears
distinguishing features: reverse rogue x-men hair color (white on the sides, black in the center), large glasses, old man swagpositive traits: charming, intelligent, perceptive, friendlynegative traits melodramatic, arrogant, catty, manipulativelabels / tropes: the patriarch, cool old guy, evil old folks, benevolent boss, affluent ascetic, cool old guy, feeling their age, badass in a nice suit, man of wealth and taste, loveable rogue, affably evil. old wind bag, wise old folk facade
character inspiration: En (dorohedoro)
likes: positive press, being adored
dislikes: dips in the stock market, his kids disappointing him
fears: being forgotten, death
hobbies: the old rich guy classics: squash, golf, sailing, polo
habits: smoking, taking off his fashion eye glasses for dramatic effect
002. EXTRA ORDINARY
near death experience…
According to the About Page on his company’s website, Kintan Naik grew up in one of the poorest districts in western India. A born humanitarian, Kintan would fast for days so the other children in the orphanage he grew up in could eat their fill during meals. At age sixteen and desperate to provide for his found family, Kintan fearlessly traveled out into the nearby woods to forage for food. Fortuitously, he was able to find a large collection of mushrooms growing in the shade of a large tree. The dappled light from the sun above obscured the colors of the clusters of mushrooms and in his hunger and excitement, Kintan brought one of the plump, white caps to his lips and took a bite; it was both his greatest mistake and blessing.
In the end Kintan’s NDE allowed him to be able to feed not just his brothers and sisters at the orphanage but the other struggling people around him as well. Community food gardens grew into a thriving mushroom cultivating business that gave both nourishment and employment to the people around him. A born humanitarian, it was a no-brainier that Kintan would become a philanthropist once he accrued a mass of wealth.
Whether this story is one hundred percent true or not is up to debate, but it's not partially advisable that naysayers bring up their issues with Naik or his company in public or forums that can be tied back to them. As if there’s one thing that’s certain is that Kintan Naik has a knack for creating good press and has the sort of good will rarely shown to someone in his tax bracket.
power…
[ tw references to/mentions of bodily harm, body horror, gore, mutilation, suffocation ]
Kintan has absolute power over all types of fungi (mushrooms, mold, yeasts) and as such he can force them to rapidly go through their life cycle from spore to sporing in an instant. He can create/connect to mycelium underground networks and use the fruitbodies of mushrooms as wiretap devices.
His ability to manipulate air borne spores into full grown sporing mushrooms means that he can cause mushrooms to grow into a giant cluster. Mushrooms with toxic spores could be used to create poison clouds (Toxic Spore Bomb). And any spores breathed in/ingested could be forced into rapid growth and suffocate or explode someone from the inside out (Rapid Mushroom Growth/Infestation). He is also hypothetically able to make people ill by causing molds/yeast outbreaks in food/body parts.
[ /end of tw ]
drawbacks / vulnerabilities…
His ability works by essentially transferring his own energy into the fungi in question so he cannot grow them indefinitely. Once he becomes exhausted he can no longer use his power and in the case that he tires himself out he would need a couple days to recover. He can also not generate fungi out of thin air, he can only manipulate existing fungi.
As they are organic material, his power is weak to anything that can damage living things but particularly fire.
He's real old. 🤷♂️
The mycelium must be able to reasonably able to connect to each other whether they are rooted into the ground or able to spread far enough to connect to the network.
codename…
His marketing team came up with Saprophyte.
003. EXTRA
he has a gaggle of adopted children he's putting through saw-like sociopathic mind games to see which one is best suited to take over the family business once he retires
he is the face of many online memes that may or may not have been the work of his marketing and pr teams
has been time's person of the year
he caries small envelopes/baggies with different mushroom spores for emergency use.
he wears various rings with false gems that also contain spores but for particularly toxic fungi/fungi whose fruitbody grows extremely large (reserved for life-or-death situations).
003. CONNECTIONS:
The Royal Court:
Kintan's six children.
[ 4/6 roles reserved ]
Friends of the Family:
SONGSTRESS / HIMIKO YAMADA
The Court Jesters:
SAVANT / JAMES SAAB
RUBIX / JUNGHYUN HARVEY KWON
#cc.intro#cc.task#(if you see any typos in this no you didn't)#(i forgot to post this ahhhhh)#(will add more later etc etc)
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Curtain Call - Act 1
For: @writer-wednesday, but week 16... yes this took that long
Pairing: Captain Christopher Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N)
Warnings: None!
WC: 3k
Rating: Teen
Notes: People keep telling me, "Take your time, Elen", and I say, "but I don't want to!" But I needed this story to keep me company this summer. There's a further act to come!
Summary: Chris is there. He catches your eye and tilts his head, a small, sheepish smile on his face, and time almost stands still for a second as you stare back at him.
Masterlist • Act 2 >
In space, no one can hear you sing.
One of your teachers at the conservatoire told you that, years ago, and somehow it stuck with you, along with how to use your stomach muscles to support your breath, and what to picture in your mind as you reach for a high note.
You never questioned her about why she said it; you don’t know if she thought space travel could be bad for your voice, or whether she thought Earth music belonged on Earth. But either way, you’ve only sung off-world a couple of times.
Work on Earth has been plentiful, though, so you never had a reason to think about it. You’ve been all over the planet: Europe, Asia, a stint at the Sydney Opera House which was magical… And you like this gig, a few more weeks in a theatre in your current home city of San Francisco, a lot. It’s where the Federation brass bring dignitaries to give them a flavour of human music, and you’ve sung for admirals, ambassadors, members of the Federation council, even the president.
Your numbers aren’t until the second half, so before the show you can mingle with the audience. And recently you’ve found yourself wondering. Feeling a little restless. Pretending to yourself you’re on a starbase somewhere, or maybe Kasseelia, at one of the opera houses.
Maybe one day, when the right opportunity comes up, you’ll perform off Earth again.
For all of your thinking about space, you have to appreciate the historic building that you get to perform in on Earth. The crystal chandeliers that cast a soft warm glow and the polished wood panelling aren’t actually hundreds of years old, but they’re a re-creation of the theatre’s original design. You wonder what it would have been like, when you couldn’t get on a starship to go to another world. When a place like this might have been your only escape from a mundane life on Earth.
There are a lot of Starfleet uniforms in the foyer this evening among the suits, dresses and alien robes; even more than usual. Some are the older style navy blue, but a lot of the newer, more colourful uniforms are dotted about the crowd. Reds, blues and golds. There are aliens of a species you’ve never seen before too, taller than humans with a sparkling stone which may be jewellery in the middle of their foreheads. You smile to yourself as you push your way toward the stairs, taking care, as you always do, that no one steps on your dress. There’s something about getting to witness the crowd, and their sense of anticipation.
Your other pre-show ritual is going up to the circle level bar for a drink. You pause at the turn in the stairs for one last look at the crowd before you perform to them later, then head the rest of the way up.
It’s quieter up here. You’ve noticed during the season that the bars on the ground floor are more popular pre-show, and patrons tend not to come upstairs as much until right before the performance starts. There are a few people at tables, but no one right at the bar. It’s as picturesque as the rest of the theatre, with walls covered with vintage posters advertising operas, plays and musicals that were staged here in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.
You slide onto your stool, beneath the black and white girl on the poster of Les Misérables.
“The usual?”
“Hey, S’nera, yes please.” You smile at the Caitian bartender, ginger fur glossy under the bar’s spotlights, who already has a highball glass in hand.
“Let’s make that two,” a deep voice says, and you and S’nera share a doubtful look before you turn to see who’s spoken.
“All right,” she says, and you hear ‘your funeral’, but you forget that as you look at the stranger sitting down next to you, and your breath catches just a little. He is handsome, with a square jaw, mouth pulled into a small smile, perfectly styled greying hair and blue eyes, made bluer by the green wrap-around top he wears. He has a Starfleet badge so must be an officer, but that’s not a uniform colour you recognise. He wears it well, though. And it does nothing to hide his broad shoulders and muscled arms.
You’re jolted out of your admiration by the sound of the glasses hitting the bar, and you turn to pick one up.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, and you both take a sip. His confident expression falters. “Room temperature pineapple juice? Really?”
“It’s what I always drink.” You shrug, grinning. “First time anyone’s joined me, though.” You take another sip, the fruity flavour soothing you as it always does.
“Well, guess I walked into that one. Figures, the day I’m having. I hate these things.” He gestures, somehow encompassing the whole theatre, and sighs, and you have to stop yourself watching his mouth on the glass when he takes a drink.
“You hate concerts? Music?”
“I’m not sure the music will really be my thing, but... it’s the having to be here to see and be seen. Being here because of who I am and what I represent. It feels... inauthentic. If—” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to complain about my troubles to you.”
“No, that’s all right. Sometimes we just need someone to hear us.” You tilt your head. “Let me get you a proper drink. S’nera?” You reach over and take the glass from his hands, your fingers accidentally-on-purpose brushing against his. You clock his eyes widening just a fraction. “I’m putting it on my tab. What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey on the rocks. But won’t you join me?”
You shake your head – alcohol is bad for your voice, pre-performance, and so is ice. “I’m good. Perhaps later, though? After the show?”
“I hope so.” S’nera places his new drink on the bar, and he picks it up and raises it to you.
“So what brings you here, officer?” You ask. “I’m guessing work, but your uniform, I—”
“Chris, there you are. I knew I’d find you hiding out somewhere. Finish that, and come back with me.” The newcomer is also wearing a Starfleet uniform, dark blue with elaborate gold epaulets and badge. His dark eyes are equal parts amused and frustrated, and you’d bet he’s Chris’ superior. “I had to leave Sarah on her own with two of our guests; I’m hoping there won’t be a diplomatic incident by the time we get back.”
“Admiral, I—”
“Good evening and welcome. If you wish to take your seat for tonight’s performance, the auditorium is now open. May I please remind guests—”
You look at the antique clock above the bar. Somehow it’s already 7:15pm, and even though it’s much too early for your call, people start getting antsy if you’re not in your dressing room before the show starts. You step down off your stool, and pat Chris’ shoulder.
“I’ve got to get going now too. It was nice to meet you, Chris. Hope the show’s not as bad as you think.” You nod to the admiral on your way past, and smile at Chris, now standing, as you leave the bar.
“Anyone interesting out there tonight?” the principal ’cellist asks you as you pass her in the narrow corridor backstage, making sure to give her cello as wide a berth as possible.
“Mostly the usual, but there’s a diplomatic party. Some folks the Starfleet brass want to impress.”
“They came to the right place. We’re gonna blow them away.” Ayre, the tenor soloist, looking smart in a dark gold suit which sets off their golden-brown skin and close-cropped bleached gold curls gives a smug grin as they emerge from the door next to yours. “You coming out for drinks after?”
You open your mouth to reply, but an image of Chris floats in front of your eyes, and how you said you might meet him later. But you’ll never be able to find him—
“Hesitation is not like you.” Ayre’s expression turns suspicious. “Did you have other plans? Did you meet someone?”
You shrug. “Kind of? But no. No plans. Drinks sound great. And if I’m remembering right, you owe me, from—”
They laugh. “Yeah yeah, whatever.”
“Performers this is your five-minute call. Beginners, please stand by.”
“Break a leg,” you wave as you open the door to your dressing room.
Inside you flip on the humidifier, check your appearance and read for a bit before you start your warm-ups. At least your routine is well established, so it doesn’t matter if you can’t quite put a handsome Starfleet officer completely out of mind...
The thing you love about singing is that it’s just you. There’s nothing standing between the music and your audience; it’s your artistry, your emotion, your soul, direct from you to them. There are no instruments to get in the way, no keys to get stiff, no strings to break.
That’s not to say you don’t have to take care of your voice. You were tired and run down at the end of a semester at the conservatoire in your first year and you overdid it. You spent that entire summer resting, and praying that the doctors were right, and that your voice would come back by itself.
But as you step out onto the stage, hear the strings play that first soft chord, there’s only you, the audience, and the direct connection between you.
That’s part of why you like to mingle with the crowd before the show. The house lights are down and the stage lights are bright so you can’t make out anyone clearly, but you can picture who you’re singing for. You can see the faces, in your mind’s eye, of the regulars who you’ve seen at multiple performances. The aliens who you’d never seen before today. The Starfleet officers, including that admiral. And Chris.
You take a deep breath, and sing.
Another nice thing about being a singer is after your warm down, which only takes a few minutes, you’re done. You don’t have to drag your instrument in a case along with you if you go out, or stress about whether you’ve left it somewhere safe. And, while this run is going on, you can keep your fancy dresses at the theatre.
As quick as you are to leave your dressing room, Ayre is quicker.
“Leda said you were special tonight, you know.” They say as you fall into step with them.
“Wait really?” Leda is director of music at the theatre, among other things, and her good opinion matters.
“Of course really. I might get jealous. I’m supposed to be her favourite.”
You laugh. “Only because you dedicated Nessun Dorma to her that one time—”
“Shush. Piacere for drinks?”
“Sure.”
By the time you make it to the stage door there’s a good size group of your friends heading to the bar, and you’re looking forward to a couple of drinks before turning in.
But as you exit the theatre, stepping out into the fresh evening air, Chris is there. He catches your eye and tilts his head, a small, sheepish smile on his face, and time almost stands still for a second as you stare back at him.
Ayre nudges your shoulder, speaking in an undertone. “Guess you’re not coming after all? Make good choices, babe. “And they somehow manage to herd everyone else away before you can react.
“Hi,” you say, suddenly feeling a little nervous, a little exposed. “You enjoy the show?”
“I did. You were—” he shakes his head a little. “You were sublime, and I... I owe you an apology. I said a few things back there that were… ill-considered.”
“All you said was you didn’t expect you’d enjoy the music.” You shrug. “And that’s fair – not everything is for everyone. Mostly you seemed unhappy about your situation, not the concert. So no apology necessary. But… if you really want to apologise, you can buy me a drink?” You take a step towards him, smiling. “After a performance I can even have ice.”
“It’s the least I can do.” He grins as he offers you his arm. “So why do you drink warm pineapple juice before shows?”
“It’s a placebo, really. But I like the taste and it doesn’t do any harm, so I grab one pre-show while I’m sizing up the audience. Really you have to keep yourself hydrated all the time. And humid atmospheres help.”
You finger his jacket with your free hand. “My turn: why haven’t I seen a green Starfleet uniform before now?”
Conversation flows easily as you walk, and he’s happy to let you steer him to one of your favourite bars. It’s a bit of a hidden gem – by the bay, small but not crowded, and sleek and modern, unlike the theatre.
You like it because you can see out across the water as you sit with your drinks, to the Golden Gate Bridge in one direction, and lights on Alcatraz in another.
Above the water is the new moon, bright enough to reflect off the waves. And above that, stars.
Discussions of uniforms naturally lead to talking about space, and you question Chris on life as a starship captain, the places he’s been and the things he’s seen. His stories fascinate you, even if you’re not entirely sure you believe them all.
“You ever think about travelling? Seeing the stars?” he asks as you start in on the second round of drinks.
“Actually yes. More and more, recently. I was in a tour commemorating the founding of the Federation a few years ago. The concert on Vulcan... that was fun.”
“Oh?”
“A couple of Vulcan musicians caught up with me after the show, asking about the logic of conveying emotion in music, and why I didn’t just showcase the beauty of the mathematical structure underpinning it all.”
“That sounds very Vulcan. I have some experience with them.” He smiles, there’s something fond in his expression as it goes distant for a moment. “My chief science officer is Vulcan. He can sometimes be... blunt.”
“Yes, blunt.” You nod. “I knew they were asking in good faith, and after I got over my surprise it led to an interesting conversation. It was good to look at things from a viewpoint I hadn’t considered before.”
“That part of exploration... the way it challenges our perspective? That’s one of the things that keeps me going back out there.”
“Plus the things you get to see... the crystal formations on Iyer sound amazing. I want to see those. Shame Starfleet doesn’t take passengers.”
He laughs at that. “If I could I’d take you in a heartbeat.” He pauses, then reaches out to touch your hand. “You should go, though. To Iyer. Hell, you should travel the galaxy, if you want to. You can. Earth will still be here when you want to come home.”
“I should, huh. I still have a few weeks to go here, but after that... I was waiting for the right opportunity, to sing somewhere? But maybe I should just go explore.”
You sip your drink, feeling thoughtful. “So how long are you planetside?”
“Until tomorrow. Afternoon.” He smiles, lopsided and utterly charming, and you feel flutters inside you as you make your decision.
The corners of your mouth turn up, and you look him in the eye. “It’s a bit too late for food now, but would it be forward of me to ask you to—”
Your communicator beeps, and you frown, pulled out of the moment.
“You gonna get that?” He asks, expression gone amused.
You pull the communicator out and stare at it a moment, wondering if you can make it go quiet by force of will. But anyone calling this late must have a particular reason; it’s probably just Ayre wanting to give you an out from your date if you need one. You pull a face, and stand.
“I’d better. I’ll just be a minute.”
The breeze coming off the bay is chilly, and you feel goosebumps raise on your arms as you activate the communicator one handed, hugging the other across your stomach.
“Hello?”
“Oh thank God, I thought you were never going to pick up. It’s Leda. You need to come back to the theatre, now. It’s nothing bad, but we’re having a meeting. The others are here already, but you weren’t with them.”
“Um... now now? I’m sorry Leda, can’t whatever it is wait? I—I’m on a date...”
You hear her take a breath, and you can picture her in your mind’s eye, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to slow down. “I’m sorry about that, but I wouldn’t call you in if the matter wasn’t of the utmost importance. Time is a factor, too. When will you be here?”
You stifle your sigh.
“Give me fifteen.”
Chris must pick up something in your expression as you return to him.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, but no. Leda – Leda Lau, director of music – has summoned me back to the theatre for a meeting. I tried to tell her I was otherwise engaged, but she was insistent.” You sigh. “I’m so sorry, I was really enjoying our evening, but I’m going to have to abandon you.”
Chris stands and picks up your jacket, expression sympathetic. “Orders are orders. I understand. Let me walk you back.”
You take your jacket from him as you get to the door, and put it on before stepping outside.
“No, I’ll be fine. It’s way out of your way, if you’re staying at HQ.”
“I insist.” His small half-smile is back, and he holds out his arm for you. “My parents didn’t raise me to let a date walk back alone.”
The streets are quiet on your way to the theatre, stars glimmering above you, and it seems like no time before you’re coming up to the stage door again.
“Thank you for tonight.” You turn to face Chris, staring up into his blue eyes. “I’m sorry I had to bail on you. But... if you find yourself back on Earth again, feel free to look me up.”
He stares back down at you, and something in his blue eyes is searching. You know he’s going to kiss you—
“—don’t want you to worry, that’s all. I’ll be back soon. Yeah, see you later. Oh, hi—” Edward, a violinist, waves at you as he walks up to the door. “You here for the…? I’ll, uh… see you inside.” He gives you an apologetic glance, having just noticed Chris.
But the moment is broken, and Chris has already moved away.
“If you find yourself in space, feel free to look me up,” he says.
You smile, wistful. “I will.”
Somehow you make it through the door without looking back.
#writer wednesday#Christopher Pike#Christopher Pike x Reader#Christopher Pike x You#Captain Pike#Christopher Pike Imagine#star trek strange new worlds#star trek discovery#fanfic#writings of the girl from outer space#Curtain Call
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Back to December (2/4)
Part 1
2. A Night in December
Pairing: Colin Bridgerton x Penelope Featherington
Rating: Mature Series / Explicit Chapter
Word Count: 6.1k
Warning: Cunnilingus, Porn with Feelings
Series Summary: A modern AU where they run into one another at a bar a few years after they grew apart.
Chapter Summary: Colin does it with the lights *ON*. Penelope doesn’t believe this is real.
a/n: I dedicate this attempt at smut to @mvalentine . Obviously I didn’t know when to shut up and didn’t know which tense to choose, oop. This is the most pivotal part of their story thus far and I hope it comes off that way and not as cringe as I think it is.
Anyway, thank you for clicking and I hope you enjoy!! <3
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They’re painted like a dreamscape. The late December sky colored in strokes of black blended with clouds of smoky gray, dark lamp posts glimmer through the frosty night guiding the path ahead, two lovers stroll hand-in-hand through impressionist brushstrokes. It doesn’t seem real.
It’s all a haze.
The late night chill brushes her cheeks pink, yet she doesn’t feel it sting her skin. She’s floating. Floating and following the lead of the force at her fingertips. Her breath catches, trying to regulate from the quick pace of their steps over cobblestone. Leisurely was not in the cards, not when so much time has been hanging on this - the thread of hope of this night and them and a weight of the past finally dropping into the abyss.
There aren’t any maybe’s anymore. There’s here and now and this is happening.
There’s a tug on her hand and a whip of her head before cold seeps through the thin clothing at her back. Then there’s warmth. Fierce and insistent warmth of pillowy lips against hers combating the frozen stone of the wall she’s pressed up to. Everything is overshadowed by the glow of his body moving with hers. Golds and whites sparkle behind her eyelids as this boy kisses her with purpose. A promise and a reminder and an impertinence all at once. Everything is Colin. Her body hums as she tugs her fantasy closer, wraps an arm around his neck until there’s no space left between them.
It’s all a dream.
He pulls away. The most toe-curling smile, roguish and cheeky and familiar all at once, taking over his features and has her all fogged up again. She may be drunk. She may be doing something reckless and borderline stupid. She may be clouded by the hope of it all. Or she may have conjured this moment into manifestation over the years. She doesn’t know. All she knows is she will follow him through the dark and cobbled streets. Through the blissful ignorance.
Until the blaring orange light of the building brought her back down to earth.
Penelope had been to the only upscale hotel in town only once before, when Stella’s parents came to visit during First Year and invited the girls back to their room for a nightcap. Once was enough to know that Colin had led her through the back entrance, away from the grandeur and attentive staff of the lobby - away from eyes that could catch them together. He happily tugged her up the two flights of stairs and down the corridor to the very end, all the while still holding tightly onto her hand. Letting it go only to unlock the door with his key fob and usher her in with a humble ‘after you’.
She’s definitely not drunk now.
The scent of fresh linen and lingering dredges of cologne fill her every breath as she moves further into his space, touches of sobriety carried on every inhale.
“Want a drink?” he asks as they step through the door to his hotel room. The thick reinforced wood closes behind him with the faintest of clicks.
Penelope strolls through the tiny little foyer, past the bathroom and the wet bar, into the modest bedroom. Her eyes take everything in keenly - from the massive bed with white linens and more pillows than necessary, to the window with only the sheer curtain pulled encouraging faint city lights to spill in, the empty desk with a lone chair angled and inviting. To the imposing hardwood dresser with a flat screen television perched on top, and to the half opened hand luggage discarded to the side. Looking everywhere but over at the wet bar where Colin pours two crystal tumblers of whiskey.
“Making mini bar money now?” she squeaks out a critical joke.
“Oh you know me,” he smiles and shoots her a wink.
There’s silence. She stands rooted in the middle of his rented bedroom, watches his shoulders move, his effortless ministrations as he leans and pours and tilts and caps. Everything he does is elegant and enchanting and… and she’s feeling just as bad as she did back then for thinking these lewd things.
Penelope fiddles with the hem of her leather jacket with anxious hands.
This may be a mistake. Probably is one of the biggest decisions of her life - regret, what if, and want all culminating into this. Years had gone by wondering what it would be like to see him again, to speak to him, to… to rewrite their past in only ways she could ever envisage under the cover of night alone in her bed.
Colin’s changed, and yet he hasn’t. His clothes and his stance and parts of his shape, but the ease in which he is - his being and how he makes her feel is still the same. Light in her chest and lightning crackling through her veins and on the edge of a cliff about to fall into waters below and anxiously an… - and maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Her eyes are still looking everywhere but at him. Landed on the white trim of the door visible over his shoulder as he takes long strides towards her.
“Brought my own,” he says as he hands her the cool drink. “I’m on my way back from Scotland.”
She nods halfway. Her fingertips grazing his at the handoff - there’s that electricity again. The impact of the jolt keeps her from lingering, quickly she brings the liquid to her lips to stop the gasp that’s nearly fallen with reality, here and now.
“It’s so good to see you again, Pen.”
There it was. That nickname. She hasn’t been Pen in ages. Barely goes by Penelope these days, either. And just like that she’s a kid again. A kid with a crush and it’s all so overwhelming feeling these things again, so she takes a larger gulp of amber liquid.
He follows suit and she can feel his gaze on her, unyielding and scorching her cheeks, her wrists, and the tips of her ears down past her chest. She swallows her imminent fear to look him in the eye.
And oh what a sight it is.
His are clear aquamarine - the sea in sunlight, like the stones they’d find in the sand of his family’s lake way back when. She can tell he’s not drunk, far from it in fact. But there’s a glass in his eye she’s only ever had an inkling of before. He’s in a sweater so unlike the boy she used to know, and his hair perfectly positioned to draw attention to his defined jaw. She remembers when he used to be round and squishy and baby-faced but still handsome as hell. She remembers the way he used to look at her back then and how she’d always have to look away, deflect with a sardonic jab to keep the blush from coating her cheeks. She remembers the rush it brought. The weightless onslaught of butterflies. It’s happening now. He’s looking at her like that now. Like she’s capable of hanging the moon in the sky and summoning snow with a flick of her fingers. And she’s back there - that room they’ve spent their youth in, dim under the glow of the LED screen. For a moment she’s seventeen again.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
He’s close. In front of her once more and it's oh so different than the bar. Colin places his barely touched drink on the dresser, then moves towards her intently, brushes tresses of straightened dyed blonde hair behind her shoulder. She doesn’t dare look anywhere but his hand the entire time. Watches as it rests at the base of her neck - skin on skin. Intention hanging in the air. Intention and heat and promise and all without expectation. There’s still time to back out. Before she truly makes a mistake she can’t take back.
Penelope takes one more sip and places her drink on the side, too. When she looks up at him through long lashes, something’s changed. The air is heavy now - not stifling but weighted; waiting and wanting stirring in the silence. Colin’s eyes are still big and curious and his lips are full and tinged by her lipstick and he’s so close. Handsome, even more so than before. The dim light of the room illuminates them, casting hues laden with lust. His hands move towards her jacket.
“May I?” The way he dropped his voice low, and the way he looked like a cat about to catch a bird… there was no way she would turn him down; she was wet just thinking about it. About his hands on her and hopefully more.
She nods.
Colin slips the jacket off her shoulders. Slowly. His eyes follow every inch of her newly revealed form, anticipation swirling in his irises. A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as he artfully threw the jacket onto the lone desk chair.
The kiss in the bar was another world away. Some time that maybe only exists in a dreamland. Because now they’re in a quiet lily white bedroom and it’s ever so apparent recklessness has been abandoned. There’s something meaningful swirling between them neither cares to acknowledge but can’t help but feel. Pen elongates her body up towards him at the same time Colin moves until there isn’t an ounce of space left between them.
It’s glorious.
To feel him. To have his hands trailing her body, tracing more defined curves that were only shadows before. To outline the slope of his shoulders with her fingertips and feel the taut muscle there. To be pulled closer and closer, and twirled to a dance he’s leading.
Fireworks ran rampant in her gut, every nerve ending on fire. It’s all too slow and too fast at the same time. One of his hands holding her head in place as he slipped his tongue between her awaiting lips. Oh, Penelope moaned softly as his tongue moved with hers. As he kissed her slow and purposefully. As she let herself get lost in the way he tasted like scotch and home - sweet and reassuring, like the lazy days they’d spend bundled in his mother’s drawing room eating sweets and watching films. Domestic and nostalgic, a fantasy she always coveted since. She’s lost to the feeling, putty in his hands as she lets him take control.
She’s pulled forward, tugged by his teeth at her bottom lip as Colin backs himself up to sit on the bed. Large hands fisting in the light fabric at her waist as he draws her towards him once more, missing the press of their bodies. Pen is helpless to the sensations coursing her body, can’t do anything but lift her legs to straddle him - precariously kneeling at the edge of the mattress to keep her full womanly weight off him.
But Colin pulls her down harder. Kisses her into delirium until she can’t keep herself up. Wanting - needing every bit of their bodies touching. Penelope’s entire being cedes to this and now. Leaning in, her arms wrapped around his neck and fingers fisted in his chestnut locks, heads tilting together deepening the kiss until there’s no fine point where he ends and she begins. Colin’s fingers run delicately across her pilant body, careful and purposeful and feather-light making her skin tingle, arching and asking for more of everything.
And he’s handling her with care. God, she doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want her brain to ruin this and compare it to her fantasies, or worse - think about how she compares to all his past others. So she kisses him, harder. Gives a raspy beg of ‘please’ as her hips roll into his. Colin is all too eager to oblige - to obliterate everything else but here and now.
Hands move to places unseen. Places friends don’t explore with friends.
There’s never been anything friendly between them.
It’s more. More gasps and moans as lips find hidden treasure. More please. More off. More hands everywhere. More clothes on the floor. Hearts beating erratically.
“You’re beautiful,” he all but whispered in earnest. Soft sage eyes on hers, boring and imploring her to believe him.
The look of reverence on his face as he uncovered more bits of her body she always kept covered up… - it's so much.
For the first time Penelope Featherington felt herself bloom under the attention.
Instead of closing her eyes and letting it happen, she took control. Her hands trailed down his chest to the hem of his undershirt.
“I want to see you,” she muttered against his lips and her fingers worked to expose the hot skin underneath.
He raised his arms and she slid off his top.
A second passed. Then another with only shallow breaths passing between them. Her darkened stare stuck on the dips of his chest, the curves of this man’s body.
“Touch me.”
So she does. Her filed nails caressing, exploring his pecs and down to the outline of abs that surely weren’t there when they’d known one another. He’s muscular and manly, not soft and boyish. Far from the fantasy she used to have of him - of them together in ways more than just this over years and years. And he has tufts of chest hair now too. Her finger cards through the dark wiry strands that curl around her little pink fingertip.
Colin watches her, hands on her hips still rooting her there, here.
He wants to say something, so does she. But what can really be said at a moment like this. Idle conversation couldn’t withstand it.
When words fail mouths move.
Colin took one of her bare breasts in his mouth. Shifted her higher up his body to eagerly plop his lips around her. Pen’s fingers twirled and tangled in the hair at the back of his head, holding him in place whilst he flicked his tongue across her nipple, before grazing his teeth and nipping her just enough to elicit a whimper. Without complaint he moved to the other, lavishing her body in the only way he’d know how.
It’s too much.
The circles he was swirling against her sensitive skin mimicked the patterns she was grinding against him, driving her wild - seeking a pressure that wasn’t close enough. Colin’s hand slid between them, thumbing at her center through her jeans, trying to match her place and grant her some release. But it wasn’t enough.
An annoyed whine passed Pen’s lips. A huff as she pushed his shoulders away.
“Off,” she declares as soon as his concerned gaze found hers, and Colin drops his hold completely. Concedes so she can get off him, disappointment beginning to creep into his thick brow.
Penelope steps back, just enough to fully use all her limbs without any impediments. His eyes are still on her and she watches him, too. Stares with a sinister smirk as her thumbs work the buttons of her jeans. Colin catches her eye, as much as the sight of watching her strip could be his undoing, he quirks a brow in askance.
A simple nod is all he gets in response.
And no sooner does Colin launch himself in the air to rid himself of his trousers. The speed and fumbling by which he obliges is endearing as ever. Light laughter filling the spaces of this prelude.
This isn’t weird, or awkward as most first times would go. No, this is a long time coming. They’ve played this scene out many times in the back of her mind. She knows exactly what comes next, now.
Penelope moves towards him, but Colin keeps her at arms length. His eyes rove her body - curvy and alabaster and every flaw on display with the din of the foyer light spilling in on her like a spotlight. And for a brief moment she recedes into herself - steels herself from the rejection that’s about to come. This was nice, but it’s over now. This isn’t supposed to happen for them. Unrequited love is meant to be just that - fruitless and never real.
Colin breathes, gravel on his tongue. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” what else is she meant to say.
His hands caress her sides, up and down the swell of her hips, her waist, the sides of her chest. Pads of fingers ghosting her breasts, circling her areolas as he considers her attentively. She waits. And waits for the rejection she knows is coming.
“B-” there it is, on the tip of his tongue, the but we should stop.
She knows it’s coming and the strings of her chest are dangling by a frayed thread, waiting to drop. Her lips part, ready to finish the sentence for him, her eyes darting to the side to find the quickest path to her clothes. But
“Before we continue…” he strides over to his rucksack, riddles around for two heartbeats too long, and finds what he’s looking for. The look on his face as he saunters over holding the ream of two condoms is contagious enough to have her smiling back. “Safety first.”
Pen hops on the tips of her toes, practically throws herself to wrap her arms around his neck, kissing him with all the jittery hope she felt at the bar. And Colin laughs into the quick press of their lips. He pulls away only to chuck the condoms up by the pillows.
And they’re standing there, naked. Completely bare. Bodies on display for the other for the first time, truly. No illicit touches or attempted rendezvous that always ended in a mishap or miscommunication. No give and take and making it halfway before a fakeout.
Penelope wasn’t anywhere near ready to accept her feelings back then. Couldn’t understand them in the slightest. Denial and naïveté built walls around her heart - the finest of fortresses keeping everything locked and sealed. Looking back, she can see it for what it was: his attempts to scale her walls again and again. Maybe now it’s time to lower the drawbridge, open the gates even if it means letting the Trojan horse of insecurity and past mistakes in.
Colin stood so close, his heated gaze sending a shiver down her spine. Vulnerable as she was, she let him scrutinize her. Let him look at all of her without covering a single portion of her stomach - the rolls of her belly, the sure smudge of her makeup, stretch marks at her hips, and white marks at her heavy breasts.
The air around them crackled and the light on her turned brighter, washing out everything save for them.
Colin trailed the tip of his forefinger down her jaw, and around her lips. Pen tilted into his touch, daring goosebumps to prick her skin. She watched intently as his adam’s apple bobbed, swallowed down a small keen as she closed her lips around the tip of his finger and gave it a chaste lick. Before she even had time to think about what she was doing Colin replaced the finger on her mouth with his lips, slipping his tongue against hers while his hands cupped her pretty, round face. There was no hesitation.
They responded in earnest. Pen closing the small slivers of breadth between them until their bodies were finally skin to skin. And Colin’s hands on her bare ass, cupping, kneading, pulling her hips up and forward, a joined moan slipping as she ground against his ever present erection. His tongue gliding with hers, not desperate but intent. Soft and deliberate and drawn out, the way it feels when you’ve been running for miles and finally stop to take a drink: breathless and hot and perfect against her lips.
He sucked her bottom between his teeth as he guided her backwards. Towards the bed once again. Sapphire eyes shot open as soon as the cold linen grazed the back of her knees. To watch his face as he sent them into free fall - to feel the grin against her skin and be rewarded with its beauty, accompanied by the lightness of his green eyes. It made her feel like the center of the universe, like she only existed for him.
How simple life would be if that were true - if they could carry out this unspoken arrangement until both of them were too old to remember who they were, who they used to be and what that meant for them. It was too easy to forget all about the ‘what ifs’ when his lips were on hers. What if they actually dated years ago? What if instead of pushing all Bridgerton’s away, she’d answered his texts? What if she’d been able to voice her true feelings instead of keeping them locked away? Maybe they’d be friends, maybe more. Maybe they would have done this many times before.
As if he could feel her thoughts, Colin tickled the spot below her upper arm, evoking her giggle and bringing her back into the moment, back to him. Penelope laughed a breathy laugh, dropping her head back against the duvet. Her back arching with her mirth as his fingers continued to work her.
Sheets rustled, and the bed dipped, and the heat of his body receded. Before Pen could even think, his hands wrapped around her calves and dragged her bum to the edge of the bed. Colin knelt on the carpeted floor and leaned towards her, between her legs. Even in the low lighting she could clearly see his smile, wide enough to show a dimple as his thumb grazes her - she was slick to the touch at the sight.
Colin parted her legs fully. Ran his palms up and down the soft skin, taking handfuls of her thighs as he worked his way up, like a lion stalking his prey. The look he shot her was truly wicked. Then, when Penelope thought she’d surely perish, he put her out of her imminent misery, lips hot as they mapped their way to her core. Never daring to break eye contact as he dropped his head down. Watching him lavish her was its own kind of erotic.
Pen’s head thrown back against the mattress, anticipating his mouth where she desires him most. He’s at her knee, a kiss at the underside, and at the other one for good measure. Trails up her thigh. One languid open mouth kiss, then another, and a third and he’s swirling his tongue, grazing his teeth against her flesh, then placing a fourth and then - then he stops?
She feels him take a deep breath. So she holds hers.
Colin’s gaze is darker than she’s ever seen, animalistic even. It would be her undoing if he wasn’t so still - wasn’t looking at her face so steadily. A reverence that would make her self conscious if it wasn’t for how intoxicatingly seductive he looks with hooded eyes - if she didn’t feel every drop of infatuation she had harbored for years begin to bubble over.
A small placating smile was all the signaling he needs.
Oh Colin Bridgerton does not disappoint.
His tongue found her in an instant - drawing long strokes through her folds and alternating with quicker movements around her clit. Sucking and running his teeth across it just barely but enough to make her whole body shudder. She couldn’t help but weave her fingers into his locks, pulling him against her, tighter, causing him to moan against her for a whole other level of pleasure.. Oh god she loved him talking like this - loved the way her name sounded when he said it, a deep and afflicted ‘Pen’. That name reserved only for him. Loved the lips that smiled after he told a terrible pun and especially loved the things they could do to her now.
She was so close. Her whole body thrumming with impatience that she was practically fucking his face with the erratic way her hips were moving to meet him, to ignite more friction, fast. Colin reached up to pinch a nipple making waves shoot down through her body as his teeth grazed her clit. Lord. Pen bit the inside of her lips, stifling a shout.
“I want to hear you. Don’t hold back, Penelope.”
She could feel herself losing it, dizzy and unaware of what was happening as he kept licking and sucking and - she’s so close. Knows he can feel it even if she’s having trouble stringing together coherent words. Colin kept going, devoutly. Hungry. As if she were his favorite plate of biscuits, and he’s been starved for years. Groaning, sending mind-blowing vibrations as she gyrated, harder. Faster. Circles and straights and nonsensical chase, going and going and keep going. Until there was pain at his scalp. Until she cried out.
Colin slowed his tongue, letting her ride out her orgasm as she clamors through, as her walls tightened against the finger she hardly noticed slipped in. Her undoing, surely. Stars glittered behind her lids, angels sung a high-pitched hymn in her ears as her entire body combusted into a supernova. Floating almighty above, and crashing down through the stratosphere until she’s back on earth, on this bed. Here. The fog from all those moments prior clearing completely.
Slowly, ever so carefully, her heavy eyes opened. Before her, with all the poise and grandeur of a Grecian statue, Colin Bridgerton was knelt between her legs, hands in his lap and illuminated by the soft bedside lighting. Watching. Amorously gazing in her glow as her chest rapidly rose up and down in quick succession, as she delighted in his gratification.
A thoughtless whine escaped her as she spread her legs wider and let him keep doing whatever he liked to her. Colin chuckled, blithe and delightful - jingling chimes on a blissful spring day.
“Good?” he asks.
Doesn’t wait for a nod or a response before he’s moving again.
He’s hovering. Crawling up to cover her body with his. Slowly. Ever so slowly she aches. Aches at the loss of contact - of his touch - as the rest of her body thrums and comes down from the peak he brought her to seconds before.
Her heavy eyes watch as he moves up up up. Broad shoulders squared and creeping, hunched like a lion stalking his prey, and his dark stare hungry and tender and never straying from hers. And that simper - that cheeky lopsided tug of the corner of his mouth, highlighting a dimple she never realized she missed more than rain after a drought, and the air he breathes passes through parted lips coating her balmy skin. His presence just as striking as the setting sun.
Finally, finally, he touched her. Ducked down just enough to kiss her dazed lips. Then her chin. Then her cheek. Then the other. And that was all she needed to truly, decidedly, be recovered from her previous pleasure and on to the next. Insatiable as ever - for him. Only ever for him.
Pen’s arms wrapped around his neck, tugging Colin closer and keeping him in place pressed blissfully against her. Blessed, haughty, skin on skin.
She ran her tongue up the column of his neck to his ear and nibbled on the soft lobe. Colin’s hot ragged breath brushing her shoulder spurring her on. Enough to keep going - to take the next step. Pen wraps her shorter legs around his thighs, wriggles her hips just enough to have his cock pressed up where it should always be. Just the tip teasing her entrance as she spoke filthy little remarks at the shell of his ear between distractingly sucking and pulling his earlobe between her teeth. And just as Colin thought to shift so he could press into her, Pen moved to close the gap herself. Reached between them, grasped him, jerking him slowly.
Colin stopped moving, stopped rutting against her and trying to take more than she was ready to give. Penelope’s turn to take the lead.
She moved her hand, pumped him once, she could hear his gulp. Twice, all the air in his lungs exhaled through his nose, and as she rotated her wrist for a third, he swatted her away.
“Pen,” he groaned. “Let me feel you.”
She was about to jest - to comment on how he just spent the last fifteen minutes feeling her, intimately and with his tongue eliciting all sorts of reckless sensations coursing through her veins.
He felt the comment before she could speak -
“In you. I need to be inside you.”
Oh there were no greater words spoken. It didn’t matter how wicked their words got or how many different ways he could pull pleasure from her without convention, because those words did it for her. They threw her brain into another tizzy and already she was near humming yes yes yes.
She lined him up with her and let Colin do the rest.
She was soaked. An after-effect of Part One mixed with her endless libidinous fascination for him. Colin entered her easily, not a moment needed to adjust. But he gave it to her. Or was it for him?
The look on the others face as they stayed motionless in the din of his bedroom with them connected in the most evolutionary of ways... its something else. It’s adoration, excitement, years of yearning, and something bigger than them swirling in their irises. The intensity of his stare is enough to turn her cheeks deliciously pink if she wasn’t already flushed beyond belief. The way he looks at her - not scrutinizing like she’s just his kid sister’s friend, nor is it the baseless regard saved for his public persona, but with knowing eyes that sees right through her and into her very core, makes her vulnerable. And just a little scared that something heavier looms over them - that even though they’ve nearly gone all the way (he’s inside her, for fucks sake!), it can all be over just as quickly, if their sensibilities are shaken back into reality.
So she rolled her hips. And squeezed.
And he let out a guttural moan.
And they were back in motion. Moving as they should.
As Colin fucked her, Pen couldn’t help but wonder how this could feel so new yet so familiar. How all this time could have gone by, and nothing seems to have changed. If Penelope allowed herself to indulge frivolous thoughts of her youth, she’d think they were fated. That she was made for him, and he for her, and no amount of complications or disastrous persons could stand in their way - every odyssey they’d make their way back to one another. But this isn’t a fairytale. She’s old enough to realize that now. No matter what this meant, he was always Eloise’s brother and she was always insipid Penelope Featherington.
Lost to the feelings, Colin’s groan, more angrily than anything, brought her back.
Pen stopped, her arms dropping from around him. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fucking close already.”
She couldn’t help but giggle - that sing-song giggle she doesn’t know feels like home to him. Pen bit her lip to stop it, but her mind thought of something better, gratifying. Her eyes darkened like a vixen, tongue drags across her plump lips.
“Come for me, Colin. Come in me. Fill me.”
Whatever chord he was holding himself back with snapped. His thrusts came quicker, deeper. Pen buried her face in his neck, her chest pressed into him so firmly her breasts didn’t move with every motion, holding onto him for dear life. Colin propped himself up by his elbows, forearms cradling her head and his fingers fisting in her wayward strands over the pillowcase. Her nails digging into his back and her legs hiked up around his hips for the deepest most mind-blowing angle.
The near-punishing pace had her eyes rolling back in her head. She’s consumed by him. His scent - the last notes of cologne lingering with the seductive stickiness of his sweat, the lasting taste of her left on her tongue by his. Colin’s body on her, in her, around her. She is on fire. She’s never felt so alive.
She buried him to the hilt, and Pen swears he whimpered into her hair.
But it wasn’t enough.
Colin kissed his way down her body until she released him enough so he was kneeling at her alter. Holding her hips up, watching her tits bounce, tummy jiggle as he pulled back, fucking her purposely. Quickly. Hard. Every vigorous drive of his hips pushing him further and further to the edge, losing control as he chased his release.
“Feels- so- good,” she whined with every devoted smack of their sticky bodies.
“Shit, Pen.” He whispered short of breath and so fucking turned on.
He rocked into her with fervor, held her knees in his large hands. The way she arched her back into him meeting his every move, ran a hand down her torso and up to pinch her nipples while she rolled her hips was irresistible. The erratic circles she was making with her body gave him shivers. She feels like a goddess before him. Hair fanned out on his pillows, alabaster skin coated in a golden hue under the table light, everything about her soft and pliable and everything. She mewled, and it was Colin’s undoing.
Colin dove down to capture her lips as he rode out his orgasm. Pen’s teeth biting down softly on his bottom lip as he came deep inside her. Oh, it’s something else. He nearly cries out when he feels her start to tighten on his cock, her form trembling underneath him. The kiss hot and messy, mouths open and wicked want spilling from them.
When it’s all over, when they’ve caught their breaths and found enough sense, Colin pulled back. Just enough to fully see her face.
He’s looking at her and she knows she’s a wreck - she feels like a wreck. Her hot ironed hair frizzing and wild, makeup smudged and her lipstick marking his lips, his neck, his shoulder, and unattractive labored breaths.
And through it all, he grinned.
***
Bathing In the afterglow, tangled in sheets, both dining silly satisfied smiles, Colin pulls her to him. Penelope’s eyes closed in content, she nuzzles into the space he created for her - under his arm and her head perfectly nestled in the crook of his neck. They lay there for minutes upon minutes, enjoying the feel of their hearts beating and the sound of their breaths. His fingers in her hair twisting strands and her drawing nonsensical patterns along his chest twining the hairs there. It’d be romantic if it was anyone else. It’s domestic and comfortable and… weird.
“What’re you doing here?” she breaks the silence, asking the question that’s been on her mind all night.
“The truth?”
Looking up at him she nods.
“I was traveling around Scotland with some mates,” he prefaces. “Was going to drive straight back to mum’s but decided to call on some friends - take the long way home.”
After all these years she could still see right through the bravado.
“What happened?”
“How do you know something happened?”
“That forlorn look on your face is very telling.”
He grabs a strand of her hair and twirls it around his deft fingers. “Here I thought I was sated and glowing beyond recognition.”
“Colin…”
His lips pinch and he averts his eyes. “My contract was dropped. Months ago. Haven’t had the heart to tell Mother.”
They’ve only just met one another again, definitely not the time for serious conversation nor prying into the way one handles faux-pas of life. Rather hypocritical to be anything but supportive.
Colin looks at her, cups her cheek and stares with those big green eyes she thinks she may just be powerless against. Pen does the same; it feels wrong to look so intently at him now that it is all done, so she chooses a spot on his forehead or the beauty mark at the side of his eye. No direct contact. No point in being barer than she already is.
She lets the moment last a little longer before breaking it and heading to the bathroom.
When Penelope returns, Colin is reclined back on the bed pouring two glasses of water from a glass bottle no doubt from the mini bar. The lights are on a little brighter, the blackout curtain is pulled, duvet pulled down and inviting, and the used condom she stepped over isn’t on the floor where they left it.
He notices her, a satisfied smile playing as soon as their eyes meet. Then he’s up, still nude and well endowed, and striding over to her before Penelope can pick up her neglected panty.
“Stay,” he says, reaching for her fingertips before they catch the fabric.
“I really sh-”
It’s a half hearted attempt and they both know it.
“Stay.”
And his kiss seals her fate.
_______________________
a/n: ok thanks ily i’m gonna go hide now 🙈
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I pick 3 & 9, As if Daemyra not a couple are out to dinner w their friends who are a couple Harwin & Laeana ;P
Fandom: House of the Dragon
Pairing(s): Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen
Warning: Daemon and Rhaenyra are very very distant cousins, age difference is around 4-5 years, fluff, attempt in humor
Headcanon: Daemon and Rhaenyra are friends, they aren’t a couple, but they act like they are married.
Feeding each other, even when they’re with their friends or family during meal times. And Nose nuzzles! For no reason! In front of other people!! And their friends are going like, “Hello? The fuck is this?”
Author’s note: English isn’t my native language. @romkole, you asked nose nuzzles too <3 but i also will write something different for you too soon;)
Based on @dumplingsjinson promts.
Word Count: 734
She doesn’t know how and why it always happens, but his food always looks and tastes more delicious than hers. It isn’t fair, really. It always happens when they go out, with friends, or alone. Rhaenyra never once had this sort of a problem when she went out without him. But when Daemon is around, his food is always better than hers. So yeah, what she does is eyeing Daemon’s Grilled Lobster with black garlic, tokyo turnips and carolina gold rice, while listening to Laena and Harwin’s story about their adventure time in Mexico. Not that she stares at his plate, she mostly looks at her friends, but she keeps glancing at the lobster Daemon is now cutting into small pieces without looking at food, as he is listening to Harvin and Laena and asking them questions about their journey. Her mouth waters at the sight. Not at the sight of Daemon, or his hands, but because of the lobster. Her thin Spaghetti with shrimp, crab, calamari, sun-dried tomatoes, white wine scampi sauce and parmesan breadcrumbs looks dull now after the waitress served Daemon his food.
“...And now I really want to buy a Harley.” Harwin says. “And Laena is all like “no way, it’s too dangerous”, even though we both know she wants a Harley too.” He laughs at that and for that receives a hit from Laena, who hits his shoulder slightly.
“It’s really dangerous…” Laena tells him and they start arguing about how dangerous driving a bike is.
Rhaenyra just chuckles, knowing how it will end: Harwin will buy a Harley, but Laena will ride it, and he will have to buy a second Harley for himself. Laena tries really hard to stay away from danger, but it’s difficult for her. And not to mention a few years back Harwin rode a Harley. Harwin actually uses this in their argument, and Laena-
“Princess, open your mouth,” Daemon whispers in her ear, and she focuses on Daemon’s soft breath and his heat alongside her body as they sit really close to each other. Rhaenyra obeys him immediately, opening her mouth. She doesn’t even ask why she should do that, trusting him completely. And the next second, the rich taste of lobster melts in her mouth and she almost moans, but holds herself back. The restaurant isn’t the place for that.
And he is always like that, shares his food with her, and it mostly always ends with him eating what she ordered but he never minds. Especially the way they eat as he feeds her his food and she gives him food from her plate. Sometimes they share a fork, but it isn’t that big deal. Right?
“Maybe I can buy a motorcycle too,” Daemon whispers into her ear. And Rhaenyra turns to face him. She doesn't get a serious face because the lobster tastes great:
“We will talk about it later.” But her tone implies that she already vetoed this idea and Daemon chuckles at that.
Their faces are just inches apart, noses almost touching, and Daemon nuzzles his nose against hers, that makes her giggle and nuzzle her nose against his too. It’s something they do a lot lately, after watching a documentary about Eskimo and finding Eskimo kissing really amusing to do.
“Hello? The fuck is this?” Laena exclaims, and they look at Laena, their cheeks touching. Laena looks at them, with a stunned expression on her face while they look at her with raised eyebrows. Rhaenyra doesn't quite understand what happened with her friend and Laena is silent and doesn't care to elaborate. Rhaenyra only notices some movement under the table, and then Laena squeals and explains:
“Sorry, I just thought that I saw a colleague kissing a man who isn’t her husband. But it’s not her, the woman is just a splendid copy of my colleague.”
“Ah,” Rhaenyra nods. “I once read that there are seven people with the same appearance as yours.” She probably won’t mind to meet someone who looks like her. It might be fun.
“But I will always recognize you, princess.” Daemon tells her.
This time it's Daemon and her to argue, but about whether or not he will recognize her if she's among girls who look exactly like her. And Rhaenyra misses the way Laena and Harwin look at them, like they know something about them Daemon and her don’t know yet.
#daemyra#daemon x rhaenyra#rhaenyra × daemon#daemon targeryan#rhaenyra targaryen#matt smith#milly alcock#hotd#house of the dragon#hotd fanfic
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Here’s a G/t snippet I wrote of my NaNoWriMo characters. Too bad this doesn’t count toward my words 😩
These characters aren’t originally G/t. Rather, they’re prince and princess of opposing kingdoms who go through some crap and end up falling in love at the end of the story. After, yk, a bunch of war and death and curses and witches and dragons and spirits and- yeah.
I kinda wanted to write them like this, tho. I couldn’t decide whether Enzo or Tana would be more suiting shrunken, and after a bunch of overthinking about it, I decided to just stick with M/f like I usually do.
For context, they’re both eighteen. In this AU, Tana is a borrower-adjacent creature Enzo probably rescued one day. Ever since, she’s been helping him rule his kingdom.
Word count: 564
CWs: extremely mild cutting, PG
Disclaimer: this is unedited
Anyway, here you go!
A Prince 👑
“You know, for someone I literally take care of, you’re pretty ungrateful,” Enzo chuckled, staring as I ate with my back turned to him.
“Oh, please. You’d be lost without me,” I mumbled as I nibbled off the last part of bread. My steps echoed rhythmically off the table as I paced, reading through the document he’d allowed me access to.
“Would I?” he asked with a chuckle. As if to prove a point, he leaned just a bit over, casting me in his shadow. The black ink that’d been so clear before now sat engulfed in its beloved darkness, and I frowned at its unreadable pages.
“Would you like my assistance, or might you prefer to suffer in your own incompetence tomorrow?” I shot, turning around to meet the hazel brown eyes looming above. They glinted with something mischievous as always, and I fought the urge to climb up and carve them out by blade.
“I’ve been trained my whole life to do this,” he countered. “I’m not stupid, but I do like your help. I could always rule on my own with a different advisor.”
He must’ve noticed how much I tensed at the idea, because another amused chuckle escaped his lips. He pulled back, allowing the sun to reclaim its place on the yellowed paper, but my attention had averted by that point.
“Like I said, Red,” he continued, “I’m not stupid. I know you’re only doing this to keep me from hurting your kingdom.”
I scowled at him. At the way he hung my own tactics over my head. At how the sun made his earthy brown skin shine like gold.
Then, he had the audacity to slip a hand on to the table next to me. I didn’t hesitate to grab the opportunity, slipping my dagger from my waist and taking a swing at his hand. The metal left a slight gash across his finger—one not even deep enough to bleed out.
But he allowed me the satisfaction nonetheless.
He flinched and cursed under his breath. It wasn’t anything too dramatic to make it appear like he was teasing me, but rather, a simple gesture to present his respect.
I’d not hurt him enough to earn any reaction, but he felt I deserved one anyway.
I turned back to the document. I could’ve argued that it was to regain my focus, but my flushed cheeks would beg to differ.
A moment of silence passed. He hadn’t moved yet; just watched me.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
“What was that?” he replied immediately, and his chair creeped as he leaned closer.
I gritted my teeth, shooting around. “I said thank-“
I was cut off by how remarkably close his face was, and I stumbled back. I tripped over my dress, falling to a sitting position with nowhere to look but his massive brown eyes.
“You’re welcome.” He smiled to show off his brilliantly white teeth, then inched closer. Too quickly for me to process, he moved his finger under my hand, leaning down to brush his lips over it.
And just like that, he stood and resigned to his quarters.
I was left alone in a room that grew darker by the second, blinking in bewilderment as I stared at nothing.
Sometimes it was easy to doubt or question, but just then, I realized just how true it was. Enzo was a prince.
#Tana and Enzo#g/t community#g/t au#g/t#g/t writing#my writing#g/t romance#gt community#gt prompts#gt story#gt#size community#fairycore
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The Wolf King Chapter 1.
Just a little announcement that my first online story, The Wolf King, was officially completed last week. I will be posting the premise and first chapter here, and you can continue reading it on my wattpad, if you enjoy it enough.
Jack Hunter is an investigative journalist, so when Crowswood, a mysterious, eerie, small town that only he can enter, reports multiple unsolved murders, his curiosity gets the better of him.
When Jack arrives and hears about werewolves hunting people at night, he's more than a little skeptical, but something pulls him deeper and deeper into the forest where the dead bodies were found, and he discovers that it was more than intuition that brought him here, to the werewolves' home.
The Wolf King himself has an obsessive attachment to Jack, but Jack is a man of reason and intellect. He doesn't care if the gold-eyed, brooding werewolf says they're mates. Jack knows he doesn't belong in Crowswood, and he's not planning to stay.
📖🕯🍯🤎🌻
Chapter One.
Don’t go out at night. It was a rule that, if you came to visit the miniscule town of Crowswood for even a few days, the locals were more than happy to whisper. Whatever you do, whatever voices you hear, whatever the reason, do not go out at night.
It was, in part, a joke. A cautionary bedtime story to get children to behave, or keep teenagers from sneaking out. But most people still believed the legend that accompanied the tale. They believed in the Wolf King, a vicious werewolf that lived in the forest encircling the tiny town. The beast that was said to take men and women as his playthings and eat them afterwards.
They believed because they had to. They believed because the bodies that littered the forest and the attacks on anyone foolish enough to take up dares too close to the trees were a hard, undeniable proof that something dark lived close by.
Now, Jack Hunter didn’t believe in dark forces or werewolves or monsters in the shadows. He was an investigative journalist which meant that he knew, more than anyone, that when something scary showed up, there was usually a flesh-and-blood villain behind the scenes controlling the strings. So when he got to Crowswood himself to do an op-ed on the murders only to find ghost stories, he knew that something weird was going on.
The forest, a voice so much like his own and nothing like his own whispered suddenly in his ear for the millionth time, and Jack ignored it. He’d been learning to ignore it since he first read the Crowswood name three months ago.
The road beneath Jack’s tires as he drove through the town was as bumpy and unpleasant as the drive in. He supposed he should just be glad he’d found the way in so easily, especially since no one back in Portland seemed to have even heard of this place, let alone have a map to it. He’d expected difficulties finding his way, but it was like the town was inviting him in. At least he’d thought it was before he started asking around and realized people were just trying to scare him away.
When he’d arrived, he’d stopped at the first diner he could find, which was probably the only one around for miles. He’d tried to pat down his unruly dark brown hair, but it didn’t stop the locals’ eyes from picking him out of the crowd. The waitress had wasted no time in warning him, with a coy smile and a wink, that “pretty people aren’t safe out at night, sugar.” When Jack, unperturbed, had asked why, the woman’s eyes narrowed mischievously. “Well, we wouldn’t want the Wolf King to get you, would we?”
At the name, the same voice echoed in his ear. The forest.
He hadn’t been able to help his scoff. “The Wolf King?”
The old man to his right with the eyepatch and scruffy white hair had grumbled over his scrambled eggs, “Careful there, boy. No one mocks the Wolf King around here and lives.” Then he’d blinked his one good eye, like he was finally seeing Jack, and said, “Say, you’re new. . . . How’d you find your way here? No one ever comes here . . .” Then he’d suddenly gasped and stumbled out of his seat, his wide, horrified eye on Jack as if he’d seen something vile on his face, and he gave him a wide berth on his escape from the diner.
So everyone here was just crazy, Jack gathered. And yet he’d continued to ask. He’d asked about the legend of the Wolf King, why almost every place in town was supposed to close at sunset, why the streets were littered with cats but no dogs, why there were sprigs of wormwood leaves hanging off iron windchimes in front of almost every doorway.
“You been here long?” the waitress had asked in response to his questions, to which Jack had simply said, “I notice a lot.”
And he’d noticed that in a pretty little town with pretty red-brick buildings and pretty flowerbeds and pretty cobblestone roads and the sound of chimes floating in the wind like fairy music, everyone was scared of wolves.
The world was in twilight now, the stars already visible in the wide open sky, the moon full and bright, a chilly breeze nipping at Jack’s cheek through the sliver of open car window. He could smell pine in the air from the forest, and almost nothing else. Already, the town was shutting down.
RIIIING! RIIIING! Jack’s phone buzzed from his passenger seat, and he answered as his dark eyes scoured the streets for a single person, a single open shop.
“Yeah?”
“You on your way back yet?” his father said dryly. “Or are you still wasting your vacation days?”
“Seventeen deaths in the past three months,” Jack shook his head, “and no one knows why. Do you still not get why I’m here?”
“What I don’t get,” Hilton sighed, “is why you felt the need to drive halfway across the state to some inconsequential little town that has its own authorities, its own paper, and – oh yeah! Its own serial killer!”
Jack turned a corner. He thought he saw someone race across the street but it was just a cat. It stopped just to hiss at nothing, and vanished.
“I don’t think this town has its own anything,” Jack said mildly. “Also, it could be multiple serial killers.”
“Jack,” he said, edge creeping into his voice now. “I swear to god, if you’re trying to be funny –”
“Dad, I’m twenty-eight, you can’t tell me what to do anymore.” He heard his dad heave another sigh, and he smiled to himself. “Would you calm down? I’m fine. Look, I’ve been asking around, and the only thing people here are scared of is werewolves.”
“Oh,” Hilton said, “so you’re in a town of lunatics. I feel better.”
“They have these weird stories about . . . well, it doesn’t matter, because none of them have ever actually see a wolf, let alone a guy changing into one. They’re getting all their evidence from the marks on the bodies.”
“You sound disappointed,” Hilton said.
“I don’t know, I think it’d be kind of cool to see a mystical creature.” His smile dimmed and he shook his head. “I’m honestly just starting to think that someone’s been killing these people outside town and dumping them in the forest. Crowswood might just be a victim.”
He waited for his father’s response, but all he got was static.
“Jack?” his dad managed. “I – hear you – Jack –”
Jack frowned and pulled his phone back. The tiny screen was gray, and the static had completely overcome his father’s voice. He clenched his jaw and hung up. He’d have to find a payphone soon and call his dad that way. He knew he ought to be surprised, but like he’d told that waitress; he paid attention.
Ever since the name of this town had first popped up in a tiny article on the last page in the TPDJ – The Pearl District Journal – Jack had had trouble getting answers from anyone on what the town was. All he’d understood was that it was in a hidden corner of Oregon and that it had had a pine forest encircling it. He hadn’t thought much of it at first, but the name kept coming up every other day with a new death, and every time Jack tried to point it out to one of his colleagues, they’d remember an important appointment they had or have to rush to the bathroom. Jack stopped asking when he’d called his best friend over, Elliot Warring, and he’d tripped on his way to him, impaling a pen through his eye.
Jack had never even managed to figure out who’d written the damn pieces. The columns always came without a name, but made it into the paper regardless, like they’d been shoehorned in at the last second during printing. If nothing else, it had driven his dad up the walls to know someone was sneaking unauthorized writings into his papers, since he owned the journal, but Jack was secretly eager for more of the puzzle, especially since saying the mere name was like cursing whoever heard it.
Someone seriously didn’t want him to ask about Crowswood. He smirked bitterly at the thought before he hung up his phone and pocketed it. Bring it on, ghost town.
Finally, finally, Jack found an open bar. The Siren Song. The windows were thrown open and it was quieter than any bar Jack had ever seen, but given that everywhere else was closed . . .
Parking his car, Jack stepped out to windchimes in his ears, and wrapped his coat more tightly around himself. He thought he heard a howl on the wind, but shook the thought from his head. The forest. Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and dismissed the thought. Ridiculous.
The Siren Song was a small space. It reeked of beer, sugar, and something metallic underneath. Stuffed swordfish hung from the walls, and unlike most of the other houses and shops around here, there was no sign of windchimes. Round, chipped tables were crammed everywhere with chairs pushed tightly together. Jack had no idea why there were so many available seats considering that the place was nearly empty except for three people.
One was slumped over his drink in the corner, one woman was wiping tables, and a very large old man behind the bar was cleaning glasses. He was staring right at Jack.
“You’re new,” he said gruffly as Jack approached and took a seat. He sounded like he’d been gargling nails and he wore a thick scarf that hid his chin.
Jack offered a polite smile. “Yes, I’m not one of the fifty people who live in this town, well spotted. You guys are pretty tight knit, huh?”
He scoffed. “Not as tight knit as you think,” he said, and held out a free hand. “Lawrence Gills. I own this bar.”
“Jack Hunter,” Jack shook the offered hand. “Interesting hours. You guys open at night? Everyone else in Crowswood seems downright terrified of the dark.”
Lawrence filled a large glass with foaming beer and slammed it down in front of Jack so that it sloshed everywhere. Without taking his eyes off Jack, he said, “Everyone’s scared of the dark. How’d you get here?”
“I drove,” Jack said.
“No,” he shook his head, and tapped a finger on the bar with every word. “How did you get in?”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “So I was right,” he said. “There is something weird about this town. Maybe you can finally give me some answers.” He leaned in. “Why does nobody else know about it? Why do weird things happen when I just say the name?”
“Aaargh,” the guy shook his head. “You ask too many questions.” He peered at him, suspicious. “You’re not some reporter, are you?”
“Investigative journalist, actually,” he said, adamant. “There’s a difference. I work for The Pearl District Journal, maybe you’ve heard of it, it’s the biggest newspaper print in Portland.” Without waiting for a response, he leaned in closer. “Why don’t you have chimes on the door? Everyone else does.”
“I ain’t stupid,” he grumbled.
“So you don’t believe werewolves are behind the deaths,” Jack said readily.
“I didn’t say that,” he said. “And you’d do better heading home before it gets dark. Wolves or not, Crowswood isn’t safe at night. Shit,” he muttered, turning away, “it ain’t safe during the day.”
“And yet you’re open at night.”
“To certain customers.”
“Dad,” the woman who’d been cleaning came up to the counter, pulling off her apron. She had blood-red hair in a long ponytail, small hazel eyes that kept glancing at Jack, and a similar large scarf to the one her father wore. “I’m heading out.”
Lawrence nodded. “You hurry straight home then.”
She didn’t move, staring instead at Jack. Her eyes focused intently on him, his scarf, his coat, the brown, leather satchel hanging across his broad chest. “You look like a swimmer,” she said in a soft voice. “You have the body for it.”
“Poppy –"
She started to smile. “I bet you’d like swimming with me.”
“POPPY!” her father snapped, and Jack blinked. He realized he’d been staring intently back at Poppy. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he turned away, trying to regain his train of thought. She has a nice voice, a voice echoed in the corner of his mind before he pushed it away. It didn’t feel like his own, but something that had been whispered into his ear and demanded acknowledgment.
Jack vaguely registered Lawrence arguing with his daughter in hushed whispers. When he looked up again, Poppy was gone, and Lawrence was watching him warily.
His brows pinched. “What?”
Lawrence’s eyes widened fractionally. Jack could’ve sworn he looked startled, but he blinked and Lawrence’s shock was gone. “Go home, Hunter,” he said gruffly.
Jack huffed. “What about police?” he insisted. “It doesn’t seem like they’re looking into the murders. I’ve been asking questions all day and no one’s even come up to me.”
“We don’t have police.”
“What about a sheriff?”
“Not that kinda town, son.”
“What kind of town doesn’t have authorities?”
“I didn’t say we don’t got ‘em.”
“Oh my god,” Jack said through gritted teeth. “This town is crazy, I should’ve known when I got here, everyone looked at me like I had horns.”
“We don’t get new people,” was all Lawrence said.
“Why not?”
“We can’t.”
“What does that mean?” he insisted. “Is it a mob thing? Are you scared to talk about it? I won’t tell anyone who my sources are, I just want to find out what’s going on. Don’t you want the outside world to know what’s happening here?”
Lawrence scoffed before he pulled out an iced water bottle and pressed it to his jaw. “We don’t want them here.”
Jack shook his head. He was getting nowhere with these people. If all of these deaths weren’t cause enough to open up to someone that might just be able to help them . . .
The forest! Jack hissed, pressing the base of his palm to his temple. He felt something tugging at his chest as the smell of pine trees grew almost overwhelming, even though Jack was so far away from the forest already. Lawrence was watching him with an inscrutable expression.
Jack didn’t like the look at all, so he tried to change topic. “Why deaths?” he murmured. Then, louder, he said, “The legend about the . . . werewolves” – he barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes – “is that they look for playthings. Which means the victims would’ve had to have gone missing for at least a day, right? The people that died though . . . they never went missing for more than a few hours.”
Lawrence narrowed his eyes. “So?”
“So that’s the only reason anyone’s scared of the dark,” Jack argued. “The werewolves, but so many parts of your own stories don’t make any sense. How is one part of the legend true but not the other?” He sighed, reaching into his satchel, where he kept a pack of matches, some paperclips for locks, a small blanket, a rope, a single pen and a pad of paper, a canon camera with a disposable flash, and a flashlight. Jack checked to make sure the flashlight’s battery was still working before he tucked it back inside with his other things.
“So?” Lawrence demanded.
“So every story comes from somewhere,” Jack grinned. “So if there are missing people out there, I’m going to find them. At the very least, I’ll catch a glimpse of whoever’s doing this and report them.” He turned to leave, but not before he caught Lawrence’s dumbfounded expression.
“T-To who?!” he spluttered. “I already told you, we ain’t got no police here!”
“Then I’ll find someone to report it to!” Jack demanded. “FBI, CIA, I don’t care! I felt helpless enough just reading about it, but I’m here now and I’m going to do something if nobody else will.”
“You’re – you’re crazy,” he yelled after Jack. “You go in there you’ll never come out!”
“You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that.”
“I won’t be able to help you!” Lawrence insisted. “It’s not safe for anyone!”
“Sure it is,” Jack said with a grim satisfaction at being able to frustrate someone else in this damn funhouse. As soon as he opened the door, the breeze carried in the sound of windchimes. “It’s not dark out yet.”
Continue reading chapter two of The Wolf King.
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Hiii, could i have a request for how the gang members would react to meeting a historian or explorer in the wild?? thank you! I love your blogs sm!!
anon ily <3333 i went wayy overboard with these but i regret nothing bc this was soo cute and fun to write. I hope u enjoy and i made it gn for everyone. I only did the VDL boys for this but if enough ppl like it i might do the girls with something similar idk yet?
Dutch Van Der Linde
Dutch first laid eyes on you when you were hanging off the edge of a cliff after slipping when you got too close to the edge. He immediately ran over to you, helping you off the cliff and getting you settled back on your feet.
He seemed genuinely concerned and agreed to help you safely record the rock carving that was on the side of the cliff face, keeping you from falling.
You were a historian and had been studying these mysterious rock carvings after meeting an equally mysterious man, Francis Sinclair.
You didn’t see much of Dutch Van Der Linde after that until you ran into him again in Saint Denis in the saloon. He remembered who you were instantly and started up a conversation about your work where you chatted away for hours.
You became very close after that and he often accompanied you to Museums and fancy fundraisers that you were invited to.
He’d always get dressed up and complimented your finer outfits which was such a difference to the field gear you’d have on. You’d spend all night chatting away over nice champagne and dancing together before actually engaging with other guests but you didn’t have a care in the world with Dutch in your life.
Arthur Morgan
Arthur finds you standing in the middle of a field, flipping over rocks and staring numbly at what appeared to be a map in your hands.
When he approached you he soon learnt you were a young amateur explorer about to get your big break with a treasure hunt but you couldn’t find the gold bars for the life of you.
Arthur gave you a heart warming smile and held up a gold bar after retrieving it from his satchel having felt a little bad that he’d discovered it not a week before you.
The two of you laughed about it, calling yourself a fool for trying to find it for so long when it was clearly missing— the thought that someone took it clearly never crossed your mind.
Arthur was always a gentleman however and promised to make it up to you. After taking you to dinner and getting to know him better, you spent the next few days camping out and finding a new treasure together.
You travelled through caves and through valleys of flowers to find this treasure. Sometimes it was so beautiful that the two of you just stopped by a stream to let your horses rest and enjoy the scenery.
When you finally found the treasure you gave Arthur a big hug in excitement which caught him by surprised but he happily returned. He let you keep the treasure and wished you luck with more exploring but of course that wasn’t the last time you saw Arthur again.
Charles Smith
Charles meets you one day while you’re out surveying wildlife. You specialised in conservation, wanting to study and protect animal species.
Fresh out of the university from Saint Denis you’d been dying to get out of the confining city and explore the heartlands. That’s where a kind gentleman named Charles Smith had offered to protect you and show you around the herds of bison you’d taken to studying.
You spent days together riding the over the hills and following the herd as they travelled. While you were Charles told you all about his family and the respect and love they have for the beautiful creatures.
It was amazing the array of knowledge Charles knew about bison and you couldn’t stop the smile on your face as he told you about the characteristics of the bison. You rushed to take notes in your journal, knowing that all that he told you would help you study and protect these animals.
“Do you think it’ll actually do any good? The work you’re doing?”
“One can only hope Mr.Smith but I will do everything in my ability to protect such beautiful creatures.”
Even when you had to return to the city for study you constantly wrote to Charles, staying in touch and keeping him updated with all your work. It was hard to say goodbye to someone you’d grown close to but you made regular visits to each other long after that.
John Marston
You first found John in the saloon after a long day at work, in desperate need of a drink. Being a zoologist you instantly noticed the scars on his face and would’ve guessed a wolf was the animal that caused the damage.
The two of you instantly started up a conversation and shared all kinds of stories. He told you about being up on the mountain while you showed him the scar on your arm from your run in with a cougar.
You were collecting a compendium of all the animals across the heartlands and during the months you worked on it, you ran into John more than once.
He was always curious about your work and you often spent time together in the afternoon sun, showing him the animals you’d found so far.
“What about the stray dogs in town or do you only deal with cougars and wolves?”
“Well they’re animals too aren’t they not?”
Even though you couldn’t see John all the time, he often came along with you to see the wildlife and covered you when you were around particularly dangerous animals and you enjoyed every second you had with him.
Micah Bell
When Micah met you he had absolutely no idea what you were on about. In his mind the whole idea of a palaeontologist is ridiculous and made up, much less the fact that you chose to read books and study in your spare time.
At first he doesn’t do anything but mock your work but after running into you time and time again he finally started to come around.
He grew more and more curious when he saw the drawings in your sketch books of dinosaurs and even more so when he laid eyes on the fossils. But knowing Micah, he’s still incredibly stubborn.
“Ain’t no way that thing is real.”
“One needs an open mind to comprehend what’s prehistoric Mr.Bell. It requires a certain practice.”
Every so often on your work you’d run into Micah who’d be riding around on his horse, just passing by. By now you’d consider him a friend and your face lit up as he pulled a small ammonite fossil from his bag.
It wasn’t really your area of expertise but you could tell he wanted to impress you and seemed almost nervous as you examined the fossil. Nonetheless you could tell it was real and you let him keep the small fossil as a reminder of you until the next time you saw him.
Javier Escuella
Javier meets you when you’re down my the docks, trying to capture the sunlight and noticed him fishing.
Not wanting to disturb him you kept out of his hair until you heard him cheer loudly at a catch he managed to pull in. In your particular interest in animals, you couldn’t help but ask if you could take a photo of the fish he’d caught.
From then on the two of you became friends, often running into each other as you tried to capture landscapes and wildlife.
You’d always spend the day together and you’d show him how to use a camera while he showed you how to fish and play the guitar.
When you spent time apart you’d often write to each other to fill the gap. You’d always send pictures with little writing on the back of them while he sent you poems and songs that he wrote for you, promising to play them for you next time you’d meet.
In your personal journal you have the first picture you ever took of Javier, kept safe between the pages. He’s standing along the docks, facing the away from the water as he holds up a large sturgeon and a large smile.
You and Javier always stay in touch and after he told you of his chaotic and dangerous time in guarma he made light of it by telling you about all the different wildlife he saw while he was there.
Bill Williamson
Bill stumbles upon you in the wild by accident. He’s out scouting a lead when he ended up getting lost through the shrubbery and found you examining flowers closely.
When you told him you were a botanist he looked as if you’d just spoken a different language to him because he didn’t have a clue as to what that meant. Bill always made you laugh fondly at the confused look when you told him all the scientific names of flowers.
In Bill’s mind, a flower was a flower. There was purple flowers and blue flowers and even red ones but they didn’t have their own names.
The next time Bill ran into you he brought you what he thought was a bouquet of white flowers. Instead they were actually a species of weed that was poisonous when eaten but it didn’t stop you from smiling and hugging him which was the intended purpose.
In light of that incident Bill was actually curious about some plants, trying to learn about them more. When Bill went exploring with you he pointed out some of his favourites and you picked a few to put them in the brim of his hat for him to take him back to camp.
When you run into him again Bill tries to give you another flower, this time actually understanding the plant he’d picked was a Vanilla Flower Orchid or the Vanilla planifolia but he never learnt how to pronounce it unlike you.
With a high blush Bill placed the flower behind your ear and you pulled him into a hug, being careful not to crush the beautiful flower.
#i always wanted to be an explorer growing up#:')#living my dream#dutch van der linde#dutch van der linde x reader#arthur morgan#arthur morgan x reader#charles smith#charles smith x reader#john marston#john marston x reader#micah bell#micah bell x reader#javier escuella#red dead redemption 2#bill williamson#bill williamson x reader#rdr2 headcanons#rdr2 writing#rdr2#red dead redemption fanfiction
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Mermay Imagine
Yandere Erasermic/fem!reader
Warnings: None I can think of. Let me know if I need to add any!
Summary: You’re lounging on the beach, (being a certified queen) watching the hours roll by with the passing clouds. Joying in the pleasures of summer—the salty air and lyrical chatter of birds, you’re unaware of the company you attracted.
A/N: I might not be here next summer, so I decided to post this regardless of the changing season. You can save it for next mermay if you’d like. It may read funny, but it’s not necessarily a story, more of an imagine. I do have a crack post for this, but I’ll add that separately.
Commission from: @megglepie. Thank you, it’s berry cute and I adore it. ☺️
Special thanks to: @rose-the-reaper for beta-reading it for me.
Imagine bathing in the summer’s sun, naked and free while soaking up its rays, basking in the solidarity of your beach. The crash of waves burble as they overlap; the cold music of seashells wash over you. Water rushes indecisively. A pool of pleated white crawls toward the bank, only to slither back into icy teal with a change of heart. They charge forth with determination, each time ripped from their desired destination. You lounge to the sound of the ocean trying to escape itself, though wary of the unknowns of land. Throwing your head back, you savor the warmth blanketing your skin; splotches of red and orange play behind your eyes like a lava lamp.
A splash of water entices them open.
Your eyebrows raise upon discovery that you’d caught two admirers.
Damn.
And you hadn’t even brought your fishing pole.
Opposed to becoming flustered by the unexpected company, you regard them coolly. You’d been feeling yourself before they came along. You’d never felt so desirable. If they didn’t like it, they could go.
The odd pair wading in the waves must share your sentiments. The blonde asks if they can join you. Both him and his black-haired counterpart came to perch on the bank alongside you as if they’d already received permission.
They’re very flirty, and ever mischievous: pulling on your legs and tugging at your toes. Amongst their charming conversation, the only constant is how they attempt to cajole you into the water with them.
They don’t mind your nakedness; it isn’t as if they aren’t. They’d never seen the need for clothing, nor understood the modesty silly humans cling to.
It isn’t a thought they share with you.
Hizashi could somewhat see the appeal. It was similar to adorning oneself with pearls and pretty shells, though their crowns were the beauteous prismatic scales adorning their tails. He proved curious as much he was tickled pink, as much as his eyes were green.
“Where are your adornments?” Came a piqued question, his locks of gold falling over his shoulder like spilled sunlight while he appraised your naked form.
He was quite puzzled, he’d never seen a human without them.
“Not that you need them.” His emeralds rose to your eyes, a bright smile beautifying his cheeks to show he very much liked what he saw.
“My clothes?” You inquired back, finding his wording strange.
“They’re around. Why? Does it bother you?” You asked out of politeness, though you were unwilling to do much about it if his answer was yes.
“No.” The quieter one answered from the bed he’d made of his arms, looking up at you from beneath his lashes.
“It doesn’t.”
You’re a goddess in their humble opinion. Wouldn’t it be such a shame if you were to cover it up? Such splendor should be displayed. And the cheeky mermaid tells you so. “Why, it’d be a crime.”
The eager blonde offers one of the many necklaces bedecking his throat.
“Would you like one of mine?”
If you didn’t already know better, you’d think he was courting you.
His friend removes one of his earrings and proffers an item of his as well.
You’re surprised at how authentic the pearls appeared, how rare the jewelry they so quickly offered were.
Surfer dudes typically wore necklaces with shark teeth.
Cool?
Yes.
Expensive?
No.
Your suspicions are up. It’s tacit to your guests as you’re hesitant to accept their gifts.
“That’s thoughtful of you, blondie. But why?”
“Blondie? I’m Hizashi.” He corrected, amused and taken with your hard to get attitude. You delighted him so, he blushed the color of red corals.
“Courting.” The ravenette produced in his steed.
“Shouta.” He offered in the same monotone.
If you were persnickety, they’d happily go fetch something you deemed worthy. They wanted you ever so badly. You were shiniest thing they’d ever seen, and they needed you for their own.
“The sun is your ornament! It makes you glow like a comb jelly.” Hizashi effervesced.
Is that his way of saying your moisturizer is on point? The adoration in his words is so flagrant, you take them for a compliment.
You do your best not to stare at their bare chests, yet they have no problem eyeing yours. Demurring legs cross over one another to deter their barefaced peeks. You don’t get the sense of anything untoward, it’s more for modesty’s sake.
They’re filled with admiration and wondrous curiosity of how your cloaca is on full display. An inviting sight to be certain. Laid out on display as you were, surely you were looking for suitors.
Your unexpected company brushes their long hair aside, so you can get a better view of what they have to offer.
The couple admired your approval—for you to appraise them much the same as they had done you, to see if you deemed them worthy mate material. And hoped you fancied what you saw enough to take them as your mates. They had already made their assessments about you. You’d make a perfect mermaid. You were already so enchanting. You could’ve been a siren with the way you lured them with your beauty.
A lovely addition to their collection.
There’s no way you’re letting two dudes you’d just met woo you, but if they were handing out precious jewels like candy, you wouldn’t complain.
With a snap of your fingers, you regain their gazes.
“What would you want in return?” You should’ve known the answer as they smiled at you.
“Swim with us.”
You finally let them pull you into the water.
-
Your swim-mates are puckish and pesky. They refuse to keep their hands to themselves; you’re dunked underwater. They’re ever curious to see how long you can hold your breath.
They’ve never had a human to play with before.
It’s only when your head is forced underneath the water’s surface that you uncover you’re companions aren’t men at all. Not in a human sense. Desperate for oxygen, you scream what little air you do have for them to release you. They have only smiles and bubbles of laughter.
-
The beating of your heart slowed, yet your panic grew as your body shut down against your will; traitorous in its tranquility, accepting its fate with peaceful grace while your mind raged. Struggles with the hands holding you down weaken, an uncanny coldness overtaking you—the heaviness in your chest unbearable, but not so much as the loving expressions they wore amidst drowning you. The soft look in their eyes as they deprived you. The last of your oxygen left via an explosion of bubbles, a final bid for freedom—a prayer. It’s swallowed by a mouth far hungrier than yours. Eager lips capture it in an all-consuming kiss.
He answers your plea.
The greediness of his kiss surpassed even your need for breath. Untamed as the sea, it spun you like cotton candy.
You’re swept into a deep eddy.
Water swirls the two of you in a forced disorienting tango, made all the more dizzying as he’s unrelenting, kissing you right into a stupor; they grow feverish, and the ocean follows his lead, tossing and turning in violent turbulence—restless and insatiable, incapable of being appeased as if it were responding to him. He’s passionate and pining, it’s clamant need; his lips are curious. He must like whatever he tastes, because he demands more, and more, and more. His presses are exploratory—pilfering. Had you any breath, he surely would have stolen it away.
Aizawa craves, he wants, and he takes.
He also gives.
You’re stunned to find you can breathe. Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, you don’t ponder how in the world it’s possible. Instead, you grab his face, desperate for those sweet saving breaths; with a gluttony contending his, grasping hands drag him ever closer, so much that your union is more teeth than anything.
He smiles against you.
So very eager.
Good little mate. Let his love fill your lungs.
The longer his mouth works against yours, the more oxygen you’re able to take. With each kiss he took, he gave you life.
Silken scales brush across bare skin like tides lapping at your legs. He wraps his tail around you, encouraging your bodies flush together. You sought breath, and he happily provided like a proper mate should. Soon, you’d be trading in those impractical lungs for a set of gills.
Once Shouta gifts you his kiss of breath so you can breathe underwater, Hizashi gives you his own. Soft hands take your face between them, cupping your cheeks. A small upturned nose nuzzles into you, introducing them in an Eskimo kiss before he leans in.
He sets an easy pace for you to follow, featherlight presses and the softest pair of lips that made love to yours, they entreat so sweetly for entrance you unconsciously give it.
They adored scavenging for precious stones, and their tongues plundered to see what treasures your mouth held.
He proved equally curious as his companion, and twice as charmed. Gladdened by your flavor, he burrowed with relish, melodic trills and ecstatic clicks escaping him in the strangest songs. He imparted a tender smile when he drew back.
“We would never have let you drown.” Promised a gentle voice from within, one that belonged to the blonde before you, yet his lips hadn’t moved.
Confusion outweighed the aggravation you harbored towards the mermen for playing such a mean game with you, replaced with wonder as he spoke to you in your thoughts.
“Can you hear us (name)?” He inquired sweetly.
How-? You hadn’t mentioned your name once.
“We know the names of everything in the sea.” It was Shouta’s turn to lovingly hold your face; like Hizashi, he grazed your skin with the side of his thumb.
Could they read your mind?
“We can hear what you give us. You’re projecting quite loudly.” Shouta supplies.
“We’re also aware you didn’t appreciate our last courting technique.” To his favor, Hizashi at least appeared sheepish.
“It’s customary for us to flirt and tease.”
It was also…in their nature. They couldn’t fight instinct.
You’d looked very…drownable. Yet another detail he failed to confess.
You’re a siren submerged. The anger you rang with is muted in light of jaw-dropping revelation.
Did he really refer to them almost drowning you as flirting? Harmless as pulling a girl’s pigtails? Reminded of their less than human physiology, you peek at their tails. Undulating, those powerful muscles ripple the water. There was no out-swimming them. Looking back into their eyes, Shouta’s narrow. His smile rises an inch higher like he’d been privy to your thoughts. His obsidian tail swished, furthering your assumption.
“But hopefully, you’ll forgive us after your final fairing.”
The blonde of his hair glowed bright as the sun he claimed beautified you. It was your halo. Closing his eyes, again he asked for a kiss; this one a bit deeper than the last, he almost leans into you from the passion it carries. They’re scrunched as he seems to be focusing hard on something. Tingles begin in your fingertips, and quickly spread throughout your entire being. He was giving you something.
It isn’t the only present he has for you.
A fish zooms by, and you’re stunned that you can understand it.
“The gift of gab.” Came that excited voice from within your head, offering an explanation to your unspoken question.
“You will be able to converse with the sea life surrounding you. You can now understand them, and they can understand you.”
All around you, the fish sang their praises, the entire ocean was alive with worship—trembled in awe. They almost seem to bow. Everything from the tiniest school of mackerel swimming past to the pod of dolphins bobbing by, harmonized to magnify their names.
Prince Shouta?
“Isn’t it a lovely gift? What wonderful valentines your mates have given! You can speak with us too! Give it a try, jellyfish.”
“Do you find favor with our offerings?” Shouta capitalized on the daze inebriating your senses, re-tasting your lips. Your mind is drunk from overload. The merman coax you to take sip after sip of wonderment. Water thickens to a molasses that aids in your delayed reaction. His smile is the current that calmed its tempest—mellow, and delicate as the dimples pressed into his cheeks. When he talks, it’s feather-soft, sweet-tempered as sifted sugar. “Are those more to your liking?”
You’re floored. Were you in the presence of royalty?
“You are.” Carefully, Shouta places the earring in your lobe.
“But then so are we.”
“A princess should be able to confer with her subjects.” Hizashi clasps his necklace around you. Buoyant as the sea tended to make things, it was heavy. It felt more like a collar, as if the offers of jewelry you’d agreed to take tethered you to the mermen. Little did you know, you’d done just that when accepting their gifts. “You’ll help us look after even the littlest ones.”
“After our joining, you’ll even bear us little ones.”
-
Kicking desperately, your arms fight for the shore. The mermen join your game. They hunt as orcas. Their powerful tails create a whirlpool as they circle you. The mini tornado swallows you into the belly of the sea.
Green eyes glow from the deep. “Silly thing.” The voice inside chastises, malevolent glee.
“Merfolk are covetous.”
“Greedy things.” Shouta agrees.
Blonde billows, brilliant as the tails of bettas, shimmery with flecks of gold. Ethereal beauty that forebode. “We aren’t inclined to part with our findings.”
“You’re a treasure we intend to keep.”
#mermay tidbits#yandere erasermic x reader#pastel imagines#this is my baby but I don’t wanna look at it for at least three months#better late than never right?#I’m gonna just leave this here#*finger guns out of existence*
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Hey!
I was hoping you can Rex some really funny comedy fics. I went through all of Gina’s disaster gay, crack fics, fluff recs already and I really need a good laugh. Would you know of any new funny fics? If there’s awesome ✨ot5or4✨ friendship even better.
❤️❤️Thanks so much! I appreciate u ❤️❤️
Hi, love! After reading your ask I noticed that I barely have crack fics (the funny scenes I've read are in the middle of a story) hasiudhasiud Sorry for that! But, I put them here (and I'm hoping you haven't read them!!!) and I added some that are in my Fluff & Humor tag!
Click by @allwaswell16 (5k) | Explicit
When Louis got assigned a roommate, he wasn’t exactly thrilled, but as far as roommates go Marcel was a pretty good one. That was until Marcel started clicking a counter everywhere he went...
Drive Me Crazy by @afangirlfantasy (7k) | General Audiences
Louis’ a single Dad heading out to buy a birthday present for his little princess. Harry’s a uni student working part-time at the toy store.
Or an AU where Louis just wants a toy for his daughter, and Harry just wants to take Louis on a date.
The Charles Compass Trilogy by @sadaveniren (8k) | Explicit
Louis Tomlinson is a successful writer who rents a beach house on the Cape to try and finish the final book in his successful Charles Compass trilogy.
Waiting by @allwaswell16 (10k) | Explicit
Louis Tomlinson was Harry’s omega, of this Harry had always been sure. Unfortunately for Harry, Louis seemed to think they were just best friends. The six weeks that Harry has to live with Louis were going to be rough.
Love and Other Antidotes by @haztobegood (16k) | Explicit
Arrogant pop star Harry Styles is transformed into a cow by his bandmate Amy Z after a heated argument. Left in the back of a truck, Harry finds himself at a rural farm hours away from his band. Harry has three days to make it back to London and turn back into a human before his next show. His only chance to reclaim his glamorous life rests with a kind farmer named Louis. They must work together to find the antidote before Amy Z finishes him off and takes over the band.
Spellbound by @chloehl10 / lovelarry10 (22k) | Teen And Up Audiences
Louis’ a shifter. Harry’s a witch. The only problem is, they’re hiding those things from each other.
Will they be able to keep their secrets hidden at the most spooky time of year?
Wait For Me To Come Home by @beautifully_cyan (26k) | General Audiences
AU: Soulmates are found through photographs. When you take normal pictures with people who aren’t your soulmate, the picture is in full of color. When you take one with your soulmate, it’s black and white. Harry find’s out his “soulmate” has lied to him and realizes their photo was edited to be black and white. And that’s when Louis comes along..
Literally Making Love by @twopoppies / Brooklyn_Babylon (30k) | Explicity
Holding up one of the android's eyes to the workshop’s windows, he smiled as the light picked up the gold flecks in the pale green of his irises. Louis had always paid attention to even the tiniest details.
--
All Louis intended to do was rescue someone in need from loneliness. He had no idea it would be himself.
He’s been my Queen since we were 16 by @larriebane (30k) | Mature
Louis Tomlinson had been best friends with his neighbor’s son, Harry, as long as he could remember. The 16-year-old was small for his age and got bullied for being a weak alpha but Louis was there to help him. However, when the omega graduated from college and left for a university in London, he lost all contact with the Curly One. Five years later Louis finds himself back home, stalking a leggy hottie who looks like something from his wet dreams.
‘When did Curly get so hot?’
Until by @allwaswell16 (38k) | Explicit
Rural Eagle County, Colorado wasn’t the type of place to find a famous musician or actor. At least not until songwriter Louis Tomlinson showed up with pop star Niall Horan to visit his uncle’s horse ranch, and they just happened to find themselves next door to a reclusive former movie star.
Featuring amazing art from missytearex
Part 1 of Until
kiss me on the mouth (and set me free) by @tempolarriefics (47k) | Mature
Harry, being his endlessly patient self, asks with a wry smile, “And who am I going to spontaneously marry for financial aid?”
He clearly intends for it to be a rhetorical question, for it to shoot down Louis’ ridiculous marriage idea. But Louis answers easily, “Me. You’ll marry me.“
aka the not-so fake marriage AU in which Harry and Louis get married to keep Harry from dropping out of uni (and if they discover that they’re in love along the way, well, that’s neither here nor there).
Save me...... by @SavageMonkey (59k) | Mature
Harry is struggling with the loss of his partner, raising his daughter Addie all on his own. He is hoping to find solace at a local community center grief meeting.
Louis is dealing with his own loss, but has a whole new approach to life that Harry didn't know existed.
Harry is a successful personal chef. Louis is a star of the stage.
The light to guide me home by @tommosgun / Star_Henderson (65k) | Explicit
He was mesmerised by the guy on the bar.
Laughing and singing along to the song, grinding and thrusting in time to the music, shaking his cocktail shaker.
“Relax, don’t do it when you wanna come . Relax, don’t do it, when you wanna suck do it, relax don’t do it, when you wanna come..”
Harry’s throat felt constricted, rooted to the spot.
“When you wanna come…”
He came to his senses and edged through the crowd, not taking his eyes from the guy, gyrating and tossing his shaker. He flipped it down to a girl behind the bar and concentrated on his moves, grabbing his crotch, throwing his head back, tongue out.
Harry could feel himself getting hard in his pants. It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.
The guy was standing on the same spot but stamping his feet, arms aloft, rolling his hips suggestively.
He brought his head forward to the crowd and locked eyes with Harry.
His jaw fell open, mouth slack, pupils blown.
Or the one where Harry and his friends hit Vegas for post Uni blow out, he meets a bar owner called Louis who rocks his world. Pure lust overtakes them both but it's more, it's just so much more than that..
Off The Record by @Tomlinsontoes (90k) | Mature
Louis is an out of control teen heartthrob, Harry is hired to get him back on track and they both hate each other while they secretly don’t.
“I’m not your personal assistant you know,” Harry says once he gets there and Louis lets him in and he shoves the bag into his hands. “I’m your publicist.”
“I know that,” Louis smiles a devilish grin patting Harry in the middle of his chest as he takes the bag, “but look at you personally assisting me,” he says looking in the bag and pulling out the Cheetos. I also know that my PA turns his phone on silent at night, and clearly, you don’t. Waiting for a booty call or something?” Louis says turning on his heels and scurrying over to his sofa and plopping down. Harry swears he sees a puff of orange dust soar into the air when Louis opens the bag. He’s amazed that couch is as clean as it looks.
Let's Fall in Love in a Place You Want to Stay by @embro (134k) | Not Rated
A George of the Jungle / Tarzan AU where Louis is a model who meets Wild Man Harry in the Congo. He was raised by apes and barely speaks a word of English and turns Louis' life upside down.
Wanted Most by @geralt_of_rivia (156k) | Mature
Louis Tomlinson is a thief, and a damn good one at that. Most have heard of him. Most don’t understand him. And Harry Styles is the FBI agent who can never seem to catch him.
(I’m American, therefore there’s extreme inaccuracies related to the FBI here: England doesn’t have one. But in this fic they do. It’s fiction and I’ll do as I please. Because I’m American and know nothing of a London type layout, there’s going to be more than one inaccuracy.)
Bewitched by @photo41 (160k) | Teen And Up Audiences
“So what’s your problem, mister?”
“I’m married to a witch.” says Louis, disbelievingly, shaking his head slightly, swirling the ice around in his shot glass. “My spouse is a witch.”
“Cheer up.“ says the Bartender "You should see my wife.”
Louis doubts that his wife is a real spell-casting, cloak-wearing, cauldron stirring, witch, like his new husband, Harry.
But, Louis suspects that nothing could surprise him anymore. Not Harry’s magical friends, not his literally disappearing sister or even the way that Harry’s able to clean a kitchen in 2 seconds.
Louis had always thought that Harry was charming, he just didn’t know how much.
Adaption of the hysterical and wonderful 1960’s tv show, starring, of course, 1D; each chapter is self contained within the universe.
blue lips, blue veins by @fresharold (173k) | Explicit
“Want some advices?”
“No thank you.” Harry answers, trying to brush off Niall’s hand from his shoulder, with no success.
“I’m going to give them anyway.” Niall continues casually. “Just do like, baby steps. Day one say hi and smile. Day two suck his dick.”
au where Harry takes art classes on Fridays before going to work and Louis is the French nude model who drops the robe and doesn’t let him focus. There are plenty of text messages, a mess of emotions and a lot of time spent in bed.
Cold Little Heart by@seducedbycurls (194k) | Teen And Up Audiences
Louis is a soft omega with an abusive past and an alpha child
A few months after getting a divorce, Louis meets Harry, an ex-military alpha wolf that offers him something -odd.
In exchange for teaching him how to cook, Harry will babysit his son, Abraham
Louis really could use the help.
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Shoulder Angel
Summary: Genshin boys as your guardian angel and demon ^^
Zhongli and Childe
• Morax is literally the name of a demon.
• He appears before you on the eve of your contract, sharply dressed in elegant (and form-fitting) clothes, and calmly states his name and titles: a president of hell, overseer of thirty demonic legions, and provider of knowledge of astrology and stone.
• There's a long silence after he's done, as though he's waiting for something... or someone. Then Morax awkwardly clears his throat, and that's when the angel comes crashing in.
• "Be not afraid!" he announces, picking himself up from the floor. You aren't yet sure why you should be afraid of a skinny white boy with orange hair, but you suppose it's just something all angels say.
• You didn't get the angel's name, but when your friends come over and see the two very attractive men in your house that previously weren't there before, he's quick to spin a lie about him being a family friend of yours, Ajax, who's staying with you for an indefinite amount of time.
• Morax is less accustomed to lying on the spot, latching onto Ajax's story and introducing himself as Zhongli... another family friend. Who also coincidentally happens to be staying with you, yes.
• To be honest, Zhongli is nicer to hang out with than Ajax. He is knowledgeable about many things, and recounts grand historical events as though they happened yesterday. His deep, velvety-smooth voice has you unconsciously hanging on to his every word.
• But no matter how civil and friendly he is, take care not to forget what he's really here for. Morax takes contracts seriously, and although he refuses to outright lie, he still wants you to sign the second contract- one that gives him the legal right to claim your soul when you die.
• (Your saving grace is that even though he's not willing to play dirty, the angel certainly is).
• Meanwhile, you're pretty sure that if you make one wrong step when you're out with Ajax, he'll be fired for not protecting you properly. He's always itching for a fight or chasing the thrilling high that comes with danger some other way. But if anyone dares threaten you, he’s immediately at your side, ready to defend you if they come any closer.
• Sometimes, when his focus slips, you see his true form underneath the human glamor- hulking, plated with armor, and a pearlescent wheel for an eye- and suddenly his "be not afraid" line makes much more sense, and terrifyingly so.
• It's never visible for more than a second before Ajax is back, with his lean build and countable freckles and two eyes as blue as the deepest sea, smiling at you reassuringly and pretending nothing happened.
• He trusts you enough to not intervene when you're around Zhongli, because as far as he's concerned, your soul might as well be in Ajax’s palm. But he still delights in tormenting the lesser demons that appear near you, drawn by Morax's power- summoning blades of holy water to easily tear them to shreds.
• What? Just because he's a guardian angel doesn't mean he has to be nice.
Scaramouche and Kazuha
• In the window of time when summer turns to fall, and maple leaves change from green to shades of red, Kazuha comes to you.
• Kazuha is the perfect angel.
• He knows the hidden language of nature, guiding you away from treacherous storms and lightning strikes. Traveling with him means you can sleep safely under the stars without a care, and he's always there with a wise saying or elegant poem that reminds you to do the right thing.
• Although he sounds a little old-fashioned when he speaks, his soft voice and gentle, kind eyes persuade you to listen anyway.
• He's sweet and calm, but always ready to faithfully defend you from evil with his heavenly sword.
• Which is why it vexes him when there's one ancient evil, reeking of ozone, that he just can't seem to exorcise.
• You can't get a real name out of him- he's too spiteful and cunning to ever reveal it to you. It's either Balladeer, or Skirmisher, 散兵, or Scaramouche, which sounds the most like a name instead of a title. So Scaramouche is what you call him... for now.
• He doesn't bother trying to tempt you into anything, and seems determined to hang around you only to be a nuisance. It deeply irritates Kazuha, which only encourages Scaramouche more.
• Then one day he realizes that making you flustered isn't just fun, but also drives the angel up the walls.
• Like a new favorite toy, he quickly figures out what gets the best reactions out of you, but is smart enough to know when to stop before he goes too far. He always does it when Kazuha does something particularly cute or nice to you, dragging your attention away from him.
• Even so, your guardian angel has faith that in the end, you'll do the right thing.
• "I know you'll make the correct choice," Kazuha says to you, smiling gently. The fading light of the sun softens his features even more, making them shine like gold.
• "I know you'll make the correct choice," Scaramouche mockingly drawls, and the air suddenly grows chilly and hums with static. His icy finger draws a line down your arm, making you flinch from the cold. "After all, I'm much better than that angel, right?"
Venti and Xiao
• You're thrown off at first by the angelic wings and snarling mask, respectively. But make no mistake-
• No matter how cute he may be, Barbatos is a duke of hell, who delights in speaking in riddles and encourages you to laze around and procrastinate when you really shouldn't. He jokingly invites you to share a drink with him, and is only stopped by a firm "no" or Xiao appearing behind him with glowing green eyes and a warning growl.
• And despite Xiao sighing in exasperation whenever he has to get you out of trouble, he always appears by your side to defend you wherever you're in danger- you only need speak his name.
• It’s no secret that beneath his distant exterior, Xiao has a soft spot for you, and cares for your wellbeing even if the things humans do mystify him at times.
• Surprisingly, the two of them get along with each other, when Barbatos isn't trying to pull you into one of his schemes ("Barbatos sounds so mean," he whined once, after being scolded by the both of you. "You should call me Venti instead!")
• Xiao had a different name, once, when he was forced to serve a false and evil god. He refuses to speak of it with you, so don't try, but sometimes, late at night, the illusions over his skin come undone, and you’re sad to see just how much damage has been done in his years of servitude.
• You only know that one day, someone came along and freed him, giving him his new name. He refuses to talk about that person either, although it sounds like they're not with him anymore.
• But being granted freedom didn’t remove the agony inflicted on him, and it was Venti’s song that saved him from being consumed by pain. He secretly dreams of being able to dance to that music again, unburdened by his debts. And although he may never admit it, being with you gives him the same lightness in his heart.
• Venti doesn't care about trying to get the upper hand on Xiao or anything. He believes that humans should always have the freedom to choose without outside influence, anyway.
• But sometimes, just to mess with him, he transforms into what must be his real form: a tiny, fairy-like creature dressed in white. He floats around you like a ball of dandelion fluff in a spring breeze, and cutely nuzzles your cheek to make you laugh.
• Then he throws Xiao a smug look when you're not looking, and the guardian's shaky grip on his polearm nearly makes it crack.
#genshin imagines#zhongli x reader#childe x reader#kazuha x reader#scaramouche x reader#venti x reader#xiao x reader#genshin scenarios#my writing
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so in this post i said i wanted to talk/write about how interesting i think it is that in transformers, starscream doesn’t really fit in with the “big three” decepticons (of course megatron, soundwave, and shockwave) and how it’s a discussion on her femininity vs. their masculinity. this got really long so i’m putting this under read more; it came off as more ramble-y then i thought so apologies for any errors.
one thing that sticks out if you put the four together is how only three of them wear similar, cool color palettes; megatron is almost entirely grey (a light grey with darker grey in some areas) with red accents, soundwave is grey and dark blue with red and gold accents, and shockwave is entirely purple (his grey even has purple undertones!) and a yellow eye to top it off. their designs are all matching and blend in well with each other… except for starscream’s, who is not subtle at all. instead of cool, desaturated colors with warm accents, starscream is instead red, white, and blue with a bright yellow cockpit and a dark helm/face plate instead of the most common white helm/face plate.
not only is she very noticeable at first glance because of how bright and colorful she is in comparison to the rest of them, but she also looks… out of place. not only literally because her colors don't match as well as say megatron and soundwave’s do, but also because red, white and blue are most commonly a lot of the color palette G1 autobots used, most popular example being optimus of course.
there’s a lot of things to appreciate about this. starscream’s colors being in opposition to theirs can be a symbol of her deceptive and unloyal nature towards the decepticon cause and specifically megatron, as he’s almost all grey while she’s covered in colors. it also highlights just how out of place she looks while next to the three of them… in more ways than one, i believe.
although i believe the subject of their character designs is just as important as the characters themselves, let’s ask ourselves a question: who are the main four decepticons?
in theory, this question is easy to anyone with basic knowledge of transformers. megatron is the decepticon leader, starscream is the decepticon second-in-command, soundwave is the decepticons’ communications officer, and shockwave is, although varying depending on what source you’re using, the computer guy and guardian of cybertron for the decepticons. but who are they as people, and how do their acts as their respective positions define them?
i ask this because it’s very common that while megatron, soundwave, and especially shockwave will be described and defined by what they do, what they’re capable of, and what they’ve achieved… starscream will be described by who she is personality wise, not by her actions like the former three. megatron started the war, led a resistance force against the autobots, and managed to kill optimus prime. soundwave is megatron’s most loyal soldier, has his full trust, and is in general a very dangerous and smart opponent. shockwave managed the decepticons well while megatron was in statis, and essentially everything is his fault in the grand scheme of things. other than starscream’s yearn to be the decepticon leader and her several attempts at megatron’s life… what actions really describe her? sure, she’s regarded as one of the most morally bankrupt decepticons, but that’s still describing her as a person rather than what she does to earn that descriptor.
the reputation of the main four decepticons is that they’re intimidating, frightening big guys, and if you’re the big four of the decepticons then you definitely have the guns to back it up. megatron, soundwave, and shockwave do, and the story will often enforce just how dangerous they are by their actions, but starscream is often shafted in comparison. her accomplishments aren’t really considered all that important nor is she complimented as generously as the other three. her involvement in stories is very limited despite how recognizable she’s made out to be in transformers media to this very day. that’s where the subject of why i believe starscream is transfeminine coded, which is a very complex subject by itself, comes into play.
megatron, soundwave, and shockwave are regarded as masculine and are described with positive traits (associated with male villains): megatron is a strong, intimidating and ruthless war commander. soundwave is a stoic, silent but deadly spy who is also genuinely loyal and trustworthy to his leader. shockwave is an intelligent, logical scientist who is, literally, the reason why a lot of shit happens. they’re often regarded as masculine figures in both official content and fan content, praised for how “awesome” they are. they are competent and consistent villains in most of their iterations, and often play a huge part in the shows/comics they’re in with a few exceptions. their impact as villains and their actions are what make them striking.
starscream, in comparison, is regarded as feminine (the word “effeminate” is a lot more commonly used, though i personally dislike it, especially in this context) and is described with “negative” traits: starscream is a whiny, easily irritable scumbag and it’s questioned how she even got position of SIC. starscream is vain and flamboyant, more concerned with hiding behind the big guys because she’s too obsessed with her frame to damage it. she’s regarded in harsher terms as mentally, emotionally, and psychologically unstable. she is not regarded as a masculine figure but rather as a “failed” man and/or her femininity is amped up in some of her depictions, but also notably her fanon depictions (whether or not this is done in a positive light or negative light doesn’t really matter), and she is considered a controversial character among the fanbase— very loved by some and very hated by others. she is not portrayed as competent or is very consistent in her characterization to the point where stories often imply her accomplishments have happened offscreen, and despite her prevalence in a lot of transformers media she more or less never has a huge impact on the story or plot barring a few iterations at best. she’s only really made striking by her personality and comedy, not her role as a villain or actions in the story.
megatron, soundwave, and shockwave are strong, while starscream is weak. they are rightfully prideful, while starscream is foolishly arrogant. they are comfortable in their image, while starscream is obsessed and vain. they are calculated, while starscream is hysterical. they are competent and know what they’re doing, while starscream is incompetent and hides behind whatever big bot is around after causing a mess she made.
the general point i’m getting at is that despite all four of them being classified as villains, starscream is further vilified and demonized because she exhibits traits that are not traditionally masculine. “but wait, being whiny and vain aren’t inherently feminine traits!” and you’re right. in order to convey what type of character starscream is meant to be, that’s what people picture to be a “failed man”. she’s not on the same type of level as megatron, soundwave, or shockwave— she was designed to not be. she was designed to be inherently hated. she is not the cool, masculine villain figure who overpowers the heroes and succeeds in her plans. she is an emotional, hysterical failure of a villain who needs to rely on the Real, Strong Men if she even wants to succeed in something.
while megatron, soundwave, and shockwave are unsettling and creepy because of what they do and who they are—big, powerful figures of the decepticon cause who have proven to be fully capable of anything—starscream is meant to be unsettling because of what she represents. a high-pitched voice jet whose design resembles heels and a prominent chest plate who cares about her appearance to the point of vanity, is regarded as emotionally unstable and has easy to trigger jealousy; starscream is everything a non-traditionally masculine character in the 1980s could be. she’s really how gay you could make a character without explicitly saying they were gay in the 1980s. on that topic… how do the former three’s relationships with other characters contrast to starscream’s relationships with other characters?
an easy place to start is the relationship shared between the big four decepticons themselves. we know the positions they all have in the decepticons, but what do they think of each other? and here is where starscream further establishes herself as not really belonging among them.
soundwave and shockwave (to an extent) are loyal and offer their full servitude to megatron, while starscream makes her hatred and disloyalty of megatron no secret, and is disdainful of him. soundwave is megatron’s fully trusted communications officer, shockwave at the very least respects soundwave, and starscream makes it apparent she finds him annoying and is prone to trying to one-up him. shockwave is regarded as fiercely intelligent by megatron, and soundwave pays no real mind to him, and starscream finds him unsettling and often argues with him, making it fully clear she thinks he’s full of shit. and starscream’s hatred towards her peers are not one-sided! they all clearly hate her back and the respect they have for her in return is very bare bones and almost non-existent (shockwave especially in this regard). so among their relationships with each other…
megatron trusts soundwave, megatron respects shockwave, megatron hates starscream (only keeps her around to prove a point).
soundwave is loyal to megatron, soundwave respects shockwave, soundwave hates starscream (respects megatron more than he hates her).
shockwave follows megatron, shockwave respects soundwave, shockwave hates starscream (is very open about this fact).
starscream does not like any of them.
another thing to take away from this is that starscream is also the most open about her hatred of all three of them. megatron, soundwave, and shockwave are mature about their dislike towards other by keeping it hidden and only allowing it to slip through when intimidation is required— maturity is regarded as masculine in this case. starscream, however, is very loud with how much she hates them, and is not above making countless petty remarks and insults towards them— her “cattiness” and immaturity are regarded as feminine.
this extends to their relationships with other characters. more specifically the positive/complex relationships with male characters megatron, soundwave, and shockwave have— and what starscream subverts.
megatron, has many relationships with the other male characters, many of them having developed into positive ones with the introduction of autobot megatron in the IDW1 run. his most popular is of course optimus, his established arch nemesis and character foil. whether one is interested in this dynamic as romantic or not, it does not deter that optimus and megatron’s relationship in many iterations is often a lot more explored and deep, as although it depends on the continuity, you’ll get a glimpse of what they used to be to each other before the war. optimus and megatron at their very core respect each other as equals, which coming from megatron must be special to him.
and the list of relationships he has with other male characters can go on. his genuine trust in soundwave was discussed, cyclonus and him can count if you consider galvatron as megatron in this scenario, etc. IDW1 has also given him a lot more positive relationships with men, such as rodimus, minimus ambus, etc. hell, megatron even has NEW dangerous enemies to deal with because he’s no longer the decepticon leader, such as the entire DJD (overlord and tarn specifically). he’s a man many established relationships, all with variety and with respect ingrained in all of them.
starscream, in comparison… doesn’t really have any of that. in fact, although you could technically consider megatron her arch nemesis and character foil, megatron’s not solely unique to her character. in fact, he’s not that uncommon to be enemies with. she never really has a “strong” male character enemy to be foils to; she definitely parallels other male characters, but it never feels like a defined rivalry like in megatron and optimus’ case. her positive relationships with male characters in comparison to someone like megatron, soundwave (the cassettes, cosmos, etc.) and shockwave (optimus as senator shockwave, etc.) are very dysfunctional and very one-sided (at least at first). hell, even bumblebee and starscream in IDW1, despite possibly being the healthiest relationship starscream ever had in the run, was a result of the guilt and grief starscream repressed, and the two still had issues even near the end of the run.
(ah yes. it is very easy for you, a forged bot, to say this to a cold constructed body dysmorphic person.)
it’s even more interesting to note that unlike megatron, soundwave, and shockwave, starscream’s more prominent foils are female characters. this is of course about windblade specifically, though arcee and elita-one can count.
a more simple way i can explain what i’m trying to get at is this: megatron, soundwave, and shockwave have diverse and complex relationships with male characters where starscream’s is usually dysfunctional and borderlines on either hatred or unhealthy attachment on her side, this playing into the masculine figures they are and the other masculine figures they’re with. starscream is more likely to have diverse and (conceptually) complex relationships with female characters where the former three don’t/are few in-between, this playing into the feminine figure she’s perceived as in media.
this is a lot longer than i originally intended it to be, and i don’t want to further make this an incoherent ramble, so here’s a TL:DR and some more parallels i didn’t cover in detail:
megatron, soundwave, and shockwave all have designs that compliment each other, whereas starscream’s feels very out of place and way too colorful in comparison to all three of them, specifically megatron’s.
megatron, soundwave, and shockwave are described not only by their personalities but their actions. starscream’s action have very little to do with how she’s perceived, as who she is rather what she’s done is what’s most well known about her.
megatron, soundwave, and shockwave are positively portrayed well due to being perceived as masculine. starscream is negatively portrayed and incompetently because she is perceived as feminine. she is feminine in comparison to their masculinity.
megatron, soundwave, and shockwave all have various along with positive relationships with other male characters. starscream usually lacks these, and none of her relationships with male characters are ever truly functional or on the same level of respect
starscream’s more complex in concept dynamic with female characters yet seemingly having no romantic interest in any of them plays into her gay coding: her relationships with male characters are messy, though it’s also very easy to perceive as romantic feelings on her side at the very least (wheeljack, metalhawk, bumblebee, blurr, etc.).
soundwave and shockwave were forged, and megatron has a forged spark. starscream, however, was constructed cold.
megatron, soundwave, and shockwave have very little vanity nor do they ever truly worry about their frames or looks. starscream canonically has body dysmorphia in her iterations, specifically IDW1.
megatron, soundwave, and shockwave all have certain special abilities that are demonstrated or are specifically said to be unique to them. starscream does not, and it’s suggested that she was not an outlier like skywarp and thundercracker, but instead a generic seeker.
many of megatron’s, soundwave’s, or shockwave’s accomplishments were done specifically by them, and factored by them. starscream’s accomplishments are usually undermined or found out to be factored by someone else, and that it was part of a greater scheme (most notably shockwave’s tampering of starscream being “the chosen one”).
starscream is subject to many transmisogynistic implications and jokes. the former three do not, or are instead further masculinized, especially in comparison to starscream.
didn’t have anywhere specific i was going with this so. yea i think starscream was intentionally designed to not fit in with the other three and her being transfem coded plays into this. :thumbsup:
#long post#mine#yea this was the essay i was talking about. this got over 2000 words i'm sorry.#transformers#starscream#analysis#but thank you to everyone who wanted to hear me ramble about this.#:heart:
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( DEVIL IN A NEW SUIT. )
Money’s something that makes the world go around. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag. You don’t shame anyone for doing what they need to do.
That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy that’s being suckered out of both his heart and cash. You simply can’t let it go on.
pairing. jjk x f!reader.
genre + rating. idiots to lovers. fluff, angst, smut. the holy trifecta, babies! explicit, obviously.
tags / warnings. mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole, a satin playsuit (very nsfw), kook does a 180, smut in the form of: a slight oral fixation, too much spit, overstimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (pls don’t be irresponsible).
wc. 12.2k of nonsense. pure nonsense, i tells ya.
beta reader(s). @hobi-gif did what she always does aka read through this and made me a better writer and @yeoldontknow dealt with my big dumbass and let me cry about my pea brain to her. i love you both sm!!! ✨💜
author note. the long-awaited fic is here!! i really hope you enjoy it. if you do, please maybe leave a comment or something? i swung back and forth between loving and hating this so it’d really, really mean a lot. anyway, thanks as always for reading and i adore you! stay safe and happy and healthy!
He’s a sucker. That’s what you think of him, despite the fact you’ve never met him. It’d be impossible not to, given what you’ve heard.
His girlfriend - or something - is in every other week, flashing his black card like she has something to prove. Sometimes, she’s by herself; often, she’s with another gaggle of girls that fawn all over themselves and shriek a little too loudly for your taste. They’re vapid, snooty in a way that makes you cringe every time they step into the boutique. Still, you’re nice because this is your job and you have to be. You can’t exactly tell a paying customer to get lost - even if you think it at least six times each visit.
“He has no idea.” It’s always the same thing, a story that pulls at your heartstrings yet has you scoffing in equal parts. “I told him we were doing a girls’ trip but Hyunjin’s going to meet me on his way back and we’re spending the week at the Ritz.”
How can he possibly be this dumb, you wonder. How can’t he see past the pretty pink lipstick and perfectly coiffed blonde hair? It isn’t even that nice of a colour job - too icy and reminiscent of Malibu Barbie.
(She’d bragged about it once - how she’d gotten an appointment at one of the most coveted salons in the city, spending hours in the stylist’s chair to get this “perfect shade”. Her words, not yours.)
You figure he must be some lonely schmuck, some poor old sap who can’t possibly get what he’s looking for anywhere else. Maybe he had some weird spoiling kink - if so, where was your man like that - or he just wanted companionship and found it in the arms of girls who paid him any sort of attention. Truthfully, you thought a lot of things about him. Kind of had to, given how often his girlfriend was in, rambling about her exploits and snickering behind his back.
You’d never expected him to be like this.
Jeon Jungkook shows up on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after lunch and with the dopiest smile on his face.
Your colleague notices him first, nudging you to attention because you, unlike her, actually do productive things while you’re at work like go through layaways and make sure items aren’t sitting in the back gathering dust.
“He’s cute,” she very poorly whispers, voice carrying because it always does. She’s a younger girl - maybe a few years your junior, who’d gotten her job through pure nepotism - but she’s sweet enough. Zero tact, though. Never notices when she’s being just a little too forceful with her sales but her sweet smile and full rack seem to keep her from getting into any trouble. You consider her a vaguely annoying sister, someone you love even when you don’t necessarily like her.
You glance up from the iPad balanced in your hands, disinterested. “Who?”
There’s an older couple striding past the entrance, hand-in-hand with three Hermes bags. (God, what awful taste.) There’s another couple standing at the mouth of the Louis Vuitton boutique, bickering about which belt will best match the boyfriend’s tux best. (The answer is neither, because those belts do not belong with a classic black tux.)
“Him.”
Yejin all but points him out, jerking her chin in his direction. You don’t know how you hadn’t really clocked him in the first place. Maybe because he’s so unassuming that you’d just brushed over him, noting his outfit before moving on. When you look at him - really look at him - you can’t look away.
You think he’s handsome in that off-kilter kind of way, too-big teeth and too-wide eyes. He’s terribly innocent looking, despite the fact that he’s wearing a gleaming gold Rolex and sleek black boots you recognise from Prada’s 2019 RTW. Everything he wears is tailored, fitting him to the point you wonder who his seamstress is.
But then he speaks, and it’s not the suave, sultry voice you’d expect. It’s featherlight and almost shy, bashful in its delivery.
“I’m here to pick up a bag for my girlfriend?” He upspeaks. It’s stupidly adorable.
Bless her soul, Yejin throws a glance in your direction first. A silent ‘yours or mine?’ that’s answered when you step forward, blindingly bright customer service smile in full effect. “What’s the item and the name it’s under?” You keep in mind he’s said girlfriend very clearly, even as you can’t help but trail your stare over his shoulders, the dimple that digs itself into his cheek when he speaks again.
“Oh, it’s under mine. Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.”
You’re floored. This is Jeon Jungkook? This specimen draped in leather and fine Japanese silk is the poor idiot wrapped around Barbie’s finger? You’ve got to be kidding.
You wonder whether the surprise is evident on your face. It must be, given how quickly Yejin interrupts, piping up in that saccharine sweet voice of hers. “I’ll grab it! The Box bag in cloud, right?”
Jungkook can only nod dumbly. He has no idea what he’s there to pick up - only that he needs to because his girlfriend is away on a trip with her two best female friends. He tells you as much, chuckling at his own ignorance. It’d be cute if it weren’t so sad, his eyes twinkling like the jewels set in your ears. There’s so much love in his eyes it’s frankly sickening.
It comes before you can help it, snapping off your tongue - an oil spill ready to drag him to the depths of hell.
“Oh - you’re Kiko’s boyfriend? I thought you’d left for Hong Kong already.” Your head tilts - the picture of innocence as you continue to spew things you shouldn’t, staining the innocence of his expression with each word that drops off. “She said she was leaving on Friday.” Even while you’re tearing this poor man’s life apart, you’re racking your brain for the off-handed comments she’d made. “She kept going on and on about how she was so excited to be staying at the Ritz.”
It’s almost like you gain some sick sort of satisfaction in watching his face fall. You’ve never seen someone crumble so quickly, every ounce of affection swept up and spat out in the time it takes you to take a solid, proper breath.
You do feel bad. Not for saying it, but for being the person to do this. For hurting this stranger. (At least he knew?)
“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.” Gone is the sunny friendliness, the blissful geniality. He’s very much uncertain, bunny teeth digging into the full swell of his bottom lip. He’s pigeon-toed and round-shouldered, thick brows drawn neatly over his stare as he focuses on some indeterminate point somewhere by his feet.
If Yejin were on the floor with you, she’d tell you to knock it off. Chastise you for getting involved in something you had no business being in. (She’d be right, but you’ve always been an advocate for tough love.) As it stands, she’s still in the back finding that stupid girl’s bag and you’re here, shaking your head, weakening Jungkook’s resolve with the edge of your teeth. “No, she definitely said she was going away with her boyfriend. Did you maybe give us the wrong name?”
Maybe if he weren’t so upset, he’d be more offended by the insinuation he’s stupid. Instead, he only falters further, head mimicking yours. Poor guy.
“I—I think there’s been a mistake.”
Yeah, you dating that gold-digger, you want to say. Instead, you meet his stare like you haven’t just dug a thousand holes in his foundation. “Oh, maybe. I’m sorry.” The apology is honest, even if the meaning behind it isn’t. That’s a thing, right? Apologising to make someone feel better, even when you don’t necessarily agree with it?
God, you’re an altruist.
“It’s fine.” When he stutters, adorable lisp coming out to play, you know it’s not. You applaud him for his brave face, even if it’s very poorly offered - a makeshift mask you think you could tear off with just another well-aimed word. (You won’t.)
“Here it is!” Yejin’s back, bouncing out from behind the counter with the giant white bag in her hands. If she notices the atmosphere, she says nothing. You remind yourself to tell her good job once Jungkook leaves - and you know he’ll leave the moment he’s got those silk handles in his hand. He looks about ready to cry - or ready to fight, you’re not sure.
Once the purchase is passed over, he nods his head furiously and you swear you see a tear go flying. You don’t have time to ask before he’s hoofing it out of the store.
He doesn’t even notice he’s left his wallet on the counter.
By the time you snatch it up and round the corner, he’s nowhere to be found. Probably because running in stilettos is next to impossible and he’s gotten an embarrassed head start. Well then.
“I guess we’ll have to call him,” you hum, turning the Prada bi-fold over and over in your hands. It’s practically brand new, stuffed with large bills, his driver’s license, and few credit cards, including a Hyundai black card. The same one on file that his girlfriend - maybe soon-to-be ex-girlfriend? - uses shamelessly.
Yejin’s watching you carefully, silently. You’re counting down how long it’ll be until she asks - because you can see the curiosity swimming in her eyes, practically bulging her cheeks with the effort of keeping her questions caged behind her teeth.
Finally, after a good three minutes, she’s at your side, bony point of her chin digging a grave into your shoulder. It’s probably not the most appropriate thing but she’s never much been one for decorum. (You either, but still.)
“So… what was that about?”
You don’t bother to turn when you speak, back to running through order details and matching them with customers. “What?”
“You know— that!” She waves her wrist in a circle, gesturing toward the space Jungkook had occupied not five minutes ago. “He ran out of here like he was scared for his life.”
“Scared of the truth,” you correct.
You hadn’t thought it was possible for her to get more pale - she’s already fine porcelain, perpetually slathered in sunscreen - but she somehow does, balking at your response. There it is.
“What?” There’s a reproachful edge to her words, an uncertainty that tells more than the single syllable.
“What?” It’s mimicry and a challenge all in one, meeting her stare from the corner of your periphery. You can read every emotion that runs through her expression: shock, displeasure, confusion.
She retreats a step, bottom lip caught between her teeth. (She really does remind you of your little sister.) “So, you told him?”
You shrug, a noncommittal gesture that disrupts the curtain of silk that falls over your shoulder. You hadn’t laid it out for him but surely he had an idea now. There was no way he didn’t.
“I pointed out a few conflicting facts. That’s all.” You’re not ashamed about what you’ve done. You’d want to know if you were him. Consider it an act of goodwill.
The silence that meets your ears isn’t surprising but you don’t pay it any further mind. What’s done is done. Now he knows, or something close to it. The chips would simply fall where they were meant to.
You have to admit - you’re rooting for him.
Whatever Yejin’s thinking, she keeps it to herself for the rest of the shift. She knows better than to berate you about something like this, not that she would anyway. Obnoxious as she can be, you have an understanding. It strengthens your not-quite-close-friends-but-more-than-colleagues relationship.
It’s only at the end of your shift that she brings it up again, drifting over to you as you complete your cash count for the evening.
She holds Jungkook’s wallet in her hand, mouth pursed thoughtfully as she taps it against the edge of the counter. “You have to call him.”
You almost lose your count, finishing with a pinched expression. “Whoever works tomorrow morning can call him.” You’re not brushing off the responsibility - you really could care less - but simply passing it along to the next person. Sensible.
As it turns out, you’re the person who works the next morning, called in because another associate has come down with a cold.
You’re two lattes deep when you remember the wallet, tucked neatly behind the counter with a yellow sticky note posted to the front. You suppose it’s your responsibility now. You know if Yejin comes in tomorrow and sees it, she’ll give you her childish brand of hell.
The line rings twice before it picks up, that oddly familiar voice crackling through the speaker. “Hello?”
“Jungkook?”
There’s a beat of silence followed by a careful confirmation. “Yes, that’s me?” Upspeaking again. How cute.
“I’m calling from the CELINE boutique.” You can practically imagine the look on his face, eyes as wide as saucers as he recalls the awful-to-him encounter. “You left your wallet here and I wanted to make sure you got it back.”
“O-oh, uh—“ It’s like encountering a baby bunny - or deer or something equally adorable and vulnerable. “Thanks. I didn’t even notice. Um, I can come pick it up today?” There’s another pause, the sound of fingers over a screen, and then he’s back. “Is that okay?”
Leave it to him to have lost his wallet and yet be worried about putting someone else out. He truly was a sucker.
“That’s fine. We’re open until six tonight.”
“I’ll be there before dinner.” As if realizing how vague that is, he continues, words running headlong into each other like he can’t get them out fast enough. “Before six, I mean. Um, is around five-thirty okay?”
You want to tell him to just come whenever, that it really doesn’t matter to you, but that probably isn’t going to help the situation. Instead, you hum a quiet sound of confirmation. “Of course. We’ll see you then.”
He hangs up immediately.
The second time you meet Jeon Jungkook, he’s just as endearing as the last. It’s actually surprising, if you’re being honest. You’d thought he’d be resentful or mean or any other emotion better fitting someone whose entire world had turned upside-down.
As it stands, he’s just the right-side of anxious, a hundred little sparks of uncertainty flaring beneath his skin and lighting him up in neon. You can see him from a mile away he’s lit up so bright, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin.
Your heart aches for him - and then it skips, almost trips over its own two feet when he wanders into the store with his hands dug deep into the pocket of his pants.
How he looks tonight is nothing like how he’d looked yesterday. Somehow, you like it more. The undone head-to-toe Balenciaga, the unruly curl of his dark hair. It’s effortlessly chic - though you think it might have something to do with the fact that he’s just an attractive person. (Good-looking people could get away with anything - even god-awful fashion faux pas.)
At the sight of you, he seems to further lose steam, eyes widening to such an extent you briefly worry for him. Surely they’ll fall out of their sockets one day.
“O-oh. It’s you.” The moment the words come, he’s blushing the colour of your red-soled shoes, horrified. “I m-mean, just—” He takes a deep breath, finds his footing and tries again. “You’re the girl that helped me yesterday.” Spoken like you, the exact girl who helped him yesterday, wouldn’t remember that fact yourself.
“That’s right,” you say evenly, expression neutral. It’s almost as if that surprises him more - as if he’d expected you to shy away from the knowledge.
The two of you stare at each other for longer than is strictly speaking necessary. Well, you stare at him and he kind of bounces his eyes around the room. You know he can’t be that interested in the croc stamp Belt bag behind your head or the selection of small leather goods in the glass case.
He’s so awkward.
(You did kind of ruin his day though, so you can’t blame him.)
“So, um, my wallet?” He’s made barely any headway, still lingering awkwardly by the front of the store. You can’t help your smile - it’s more of a smirk - as you raise the item in question.
“Right here.”
Jungkook glances from it to your face, then back again. He makes the same trip twice more. “Can I have it?” To your surprise, he’s taken two whole steps toward you, brow furrowed. He’s still terribly soft, rounded edges and innocent eyes, but he’s making progress. Good job, you think.
“Of course.” You mirror him, moving out from behind the counter. Somehow, that’s not the right move, because his features are breaking and rearranging, big bunny teeth worrying a hole straight through his bottom lip. You’d think he’d be more confident, more demanding, more… everything. (You quite like that he isn’t - a complete anomaly - but you also imagine it’s also to his detriment. Too much honey, not enough vinegar.)
This time, he closes the distance with three long strides. It hadn’t escaped you how tall he was, the length of his gait - after all, you’d tried to run after him - but you’re still a little surprised when he’s in front of you, not a foot away, arm extended. Palm out, he asks again, all while refusing eye contact. “May I have it, please?”
You hand it over with a soft laugh, pressing the grained leather into his hand. You expect him to retreat immediately and he does - but then he turns and his expression is inscrutable. Is he going to say thank you? Berate you for what you’d done yesterday?
Neither, it seems. “Why did you do it?” There’s no anger, just an abiding sadness that laces his words, turns them the saddest shade of blue.
“Do it?” You know what he means. You ask anyway.
“Why did you tell me?” Jungkook’s doing that thing again, alternating between biting his tongue and chewing his cheek as he stares at you. You can practically see the melancholy rolling off him; it shines dark on the depths of his irises, how his fist trembles just barely at his side. For all his good looks and leisurely charm, you can see the effort it takes to hold himself together now.
Guilt ascends, starts somewhere deep in your stomach and turns stomach acid to butterflies. It creeps higher and higher over your spine, locking each vertebrae until you’re immobile, unable to tear your gaze from his. “I thought you deserved to know.”
“But why?”
“What do you mean?”
It’s almost comical, how both your expressions descend into bewilderment - like looking into a fun house mirror. He’s trying to wrap his mind around your actions and you’re just trying to make sense of his confusion.
You anticipate a response - can see it tittering on the tip of his tongue - but he seems to think better of it, shaking his head. It dislodges a wayward curl from behind his ear, silver twinkling with the movement.
“Thank you” is all he offers before speed-walking away.
You don’t expect to see Jeon Jungkook for a third time.
He’s waiting for you when you end your shift on Thursday, standing somewhere between the two boutiques, loitering like some kind of gremlin. (Except he’s dressed exceptionally well, slick black jeans and a Balenciaga tee shirt that rivals the cost of your shoes. Of course he’d get away with hanging out in the store without being told off.)
“Excuse me.” For once, he doesn’t sutter. The lisp doesn’t present itself, either. Was this the same Jungkook? You’re not sure until you meet his stare - or try, his own skipping away the moment you make contact.
There he is.
“Yes, Jungkook?” He flinches, as if he isn’t expecting you to know or say his name. How can someone so big, so broad across the shoulders with a face that belongs on billboards, look like such a terrified rabbit? It makes no sense to you.
“Can we talk?” The stare he levels you with is unfair, too sweet and coaxing for you to even consider saying no. You’ll still mess with him a bit though.
“We are talking.”
He sputters at that, hacks out a cough that makes you snicker openly. It’s just so easy with him, like taking candy from a baby.
“I mean like— talk talk.” The set of his jaw gives away the whisper of frustration, the fleeting touch of exasperation that doesn’t allow itself to live anywhere else. His eyes are still soft, round and glossy beneath the fluorescent storelight.
“Sure, we can talk talk.”
“Did you, um, want to grab dinner?”
You don’t mean to mock him (at least, not really) but he just makes everything so easy. You hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“W-what? No!” Despite the immediacy of his response - the look of utter shock that cracks the careful facade - he’s burning bright, cheeks aflame with colour that licks up and over his ears. “I just— I thought you’d want to talk somewhere else—”
“I’m kidding. Let’s go.”
You move first, stepping past him and onto the elevator without a backwards glance. He scampers after you, trails like a lost puppy in the wake of your shadow. Even while you stand in the corner, waiting for the lift to meet the main floor, he keeps a careful distance, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.
“So, what do you want to talk about?” It seems you have to take the initiative, throwing him a curious stare as the floor number ticks down. His gaze is trained on neon digits, unmoving. You repeat yourself, glancing up at him, half-tempted to nudge him out of his reverie. It’s almost like talking to a really hot brick wall. “Jungkook?”
He tears out of his thoughts like a wayward bullet, head swivelling wildly. “Huh?”
“What did you want to talk about?”
“Um—” He hesitates, not as if he doesn’t know the answer, but rather that he’s hesitant to speak it into existence. There’s a tidal wave in the depth of his stare, a cresting wave that looks on the edge of breaking. “—m-me?”
Brows furrow then amusement spills out. “You want to talk about… you?”
“That sounds bad.” The shape of his grow prominent over his bottom lip, his mouth pulling and pursing with whatever maelstrom exists inside that pretty skull of his.
“It’s fine. We’ll talk at dinner.”
He nods. You think it means thank you.
Sitting across from each other in the Michelin-starred restaurant - a sought after spot that takes reservations weeks in advance - it’s easy to imagine Jungkook is just another guy. Another bachelor with too much money and not enough sense, eager to sink his teeth into his next victim.
It’s hilarious how far that is from the truth.
“What did you want to eat?” He’s speaking into the pages of the leatherbound menu, half his face hidden. Whether it’s a defense mechanism or just how he woos pretty girls, you’re not sure. (You have a feeling it’s the former.)
“Whatever.” Everything here is incredible. You really don’t mind.
Jungkook’s face falls, folds in on itself like wet paper and you sigh a sound that further breaks apart the pillars keeping his composure in place. His right cheek is hollowed, interior being shredded by enamel. You take pity on him then, flipping open the menu with a great flourish.
When the waitress - a lovely little thing whose gaze lingers on your dining partner for too long to just be polite - comes to take your order, you rattle off your usual order, doubling certain selections. Soft-spoken as he might be, you have a feeling the size of his stomach makes up for all the mumbling and half-hearted glances.
“So?” You level him with a stare over the rim of your glass, lavender and lemonade bursting across your tongue.
He echoes you, wide-eyed and Bambi-like and stupidly cute. “So?”
“What did you want to talk about?” If you’d had a worse day, if you were a lesser person, you might be irritated by having to repeat yourself so often. As it stands, you’re only curious, your inquisitive nature outweighing your naturally short temper.
“Oh.” Poor boy looks like he’s been asked an impossible question, like what’s the meaning of life or the secret to eternal youth. He fumbles with the edge of his sleeve, turns the plaid over and over in his fingers as if it were a puzzle. You stare at him the whole time, unflinching, unrelenting. He’d asked you here so you damn well expect an answer.
You’re about ready to repeat yourself - fourth time’s the charm? - when he finally finds his voice.
“I wanted to say thank you.”
It’s not the answer you’d expected. It whacks you in the face, smacking your usual confidence out of place and shooting your carefully threaded eyebrows into your hairline. “What?”
He’s terribly uncomfortable, unhappy with being on the spot. You watch the flicker of emotions through his face, the ones that creep into the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the wobble of his bottom lip. Try as he might, he can’t keep the light from his eyes - twinkling stars that bloom like newly minted stars.
“Thank you.” It’s just that much harder when he repeats himself, edges he builds with his bare hands and a clearing of his throat.
You’re silent for a long while - long enough for the first few plates to be set before you. You gather up shredded radish and perfectly charred beef with your chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully on the morsel. Jungkook doesn’t move - doesn’t even reach for his chopsticks - and simply stares at you. You might find it off-putting if it were anyone but him.
You get through half the bowl of green beans, well on your way to finishing it, when he finally begins eating, deftly transferring little bites to his bowl.
The only sound is crunching - king oyster mushroom tempura, ice from your cocktail - and you’re pleasantly surprised to find it’s not uncomfortable. A little different, sure, but altogether nice. Like dining with an old friend.
You finally answer when half the plates are gone, another three laid out in their wake. You’re careful not to speak with your mouth open - you notice Jungkook doesn’t either - and take a long sip of your water. “You’re welcome, I guess.”
Something tells you you’re always surprising him - whether intentionally or not. His eyebrows have a tendency to shoot up, making him look even more shocked than he normally does. (Seriously, how big are his eyes?) You find that funny but don’t comment on it, opting to pop a silken piece of black cod into your mouth. Your stare never falters, trained on his face as you chew thoughtfully.
“What?” He’s had enough of your quiet observation, apples of his cheeks reminiscent of the tree in your parents’ backyard.
“What?” You parrot back, shameless, dark eyes twinkling at him.
“Y-you’re staring at me.”
“You’re sitting in front of me.”
The line of his mouth hardens then, tongue rolling against his cheek in a gesture that stands out. It’s the first glimpse of something rude, something not doe-eyed and innocent. Oh?
“You don’t have to stare.” Said with a speared piece of sashimi, the end of his chopsticks assaulting the poor piece of bluefin tuna like it has personally offended him.
You reach for the same place, knock ornate wood against his, and quirk a brow when he meets your stare. “Does it bother you, Mr. Jeon?” The inflection is drawn out, almost mocking, only softened by the smile you offer.
“That’s not my name.” The bite disappears past his teeth. You expect him to continue three chews later but he only goes for another, filling his plate and then his mouth.
“Sorry— Jungkook. Does my staring bother you?”
It feels a little like playing with fire - holding your hand too close to a flickering flame, curious what it’ll do. Juvenile in a way but enticing in another. You’ve never met anyone quite like Jeon Jungkook.
“It’s rude,” he reasons, glossy eyes meeting yours for perhaps the fifth time that evening.
“Maybe I’m just rude.”
He shakes his head then - dislodges untamed strands from behind his silver-lined ears - and sets his chopsticks down. (Perfectly matched up, propped against the provided rest.) “You’re not.”
You can’t keep the surprise away, the emotion threading through your brows to tie them into a little knot of consternation. He says it so readily, as if he knows you and this isn’t one of a handful of very short, very unexpected conversations. He’s not even looking away, meeting your stare with a confidence that surprises you.
It lasts for all of five more seconds before he clears his throat and sips at his tea. Anything to busy his hands, you think.
“You don’t know that,” you finally return, after what seems like too long.
“I do.” He nods - almost to himself - and continues, matter-of-fact. “You care about people. You’re… hard around the edges but you don’t mean to hurt anyone. You want to do what’s right. Sometimes it means you have to do things that aren’t easy.”
For once, you’re at a loss for words. Really and truly silenced, unable to articulate anything that might beat back the kindness he’s offering.
How the tables have turned.
He likes waffles with chocolate syrup rather than honey. He doesn’t like whipped cream or citrus-flavoured desserts. He has a tailor he’s gone to since he was a child, the same elderly woman he sometimes calls halmoni because she’s watched him grow up. He decorates his apartment with the most random things: limited edition KAWs figurines and the guitars he still hasn’t had the most practice with, one of a kind paintings from the gallery one of his best friends curates. He buys the most expensive bottles of wine at any given restaurant not because his palate is so evolved it matters, but because it’s what he’s been taught to do.
He’s been in four serious relationships in his twenty-five years. All of them have ended poorly, though his latest with Malibu Barbie is the first where he’d been cheated on. (Somehow, you doubt that but you don’t voice this disbelief.) He tends to lean towards long-term relationships with women who baby him (your words, not his). He scoffs when you call him a serial monogamist, insists he isn’t even as you list out all the facts pointing otherwise.
“I just… don’t like wasting my time,” he insists from behind his coffee cup.
“You mean you don’t like the potential to be hurt.”
Jungkook blinks at you then, Bambi eyes so big and bright you almost want to laugh. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He seems confused - as if his reasoning is solid, irrefutable.
“High risk, high reward, Jungkookie.” It’s something your father had taught you years ago, the crazy old sap. It’s probably why he’s had three divorces since you were seven years old, but you suppose it’s worked out for him now. He’s been happily married for the last ten years - the longest relationship he’s ever had. Youngin is good for him, though. You like her - even if you sometimes wish she weren’t young enough to be your older sister and not his wife.
“You say that a lot.”
“I mean it when I say it.”
He’s quiet then, shoving a corner of his croissant past his lips. When he speaks - starts to, anyway - his mouth is still full and you level him with a look that silences him until all traces of the pastry are gone. “Girls are scary.”
You laugh. Cackle, really. You can’t help it. He says it with a pout, the expression so utterly at odds with the offensively revealing shirt he wears, the smooth unblemished skin of his chest almost too much for such a quiet afternoon. He glares at you across the table, shoves another piece of the flaky golden treat into his mouth, and waits for you to speak. He knows you’re going to give him a piece of your mind because you always do, rebuffing 99% of the things he says. (Sometimes for fun, often with good intentions.)
“Heights are scary. Death is scary. Leaving your wallet at home when you’re low on gas is scary—”
“Don’t you have Apple Pa—”
“Don’t interrupt.” He clamps his lips shut, folding his arms across his chest. From anyone else, it’d be a defensive gesture; from him, it’s patient. “Girls aren’t scary. Having real feelings for people is scary, but that doesn’t mean you should just stay with people who don’t deserve you.”
“Not all of us have cheater-sniffing noses.”
You suppose he’s right but the fact still remains that he’s too nice for his own good. Too trusting, too lenient, too blind to all the red flags. Like he’s living life in greyscale.
“Well, that’s what you have me for.”
The look Jungkook gives you then is incredulous, screwing his pretty face up as if he’s about to sneeze. Instead, he laughs. “I’m not hopeless.”
“Oh, but you are.” You’re adamant, insistent. He’s more comfortable with you now - sometimes teases you in a way you’d never have expected weeks ago - but he’s still so soft. An absolute marshmallow dressed in designer duds, a heart of gold wrapped up in a bubble gum package.
You want to protect him, teach him to fly. Be his wingwoman until he’s soaring the skies on his own.
You know it’s not his pride that keeps him from saying yes. He doesn’t have an abundance of that, far too gracious to ever deny help when he really needs it. He’s just shy, doesn’t know what he wants until it’s staring him right in the face.
“Fine,” he agrees after you’ve stared at him for too long. It’s one of his weaknesses - his inability to handle attention when it’s laser-focused. It makes him sweat, prompts his nervous habit of chewing at his bottom lip, long fingers picking at the peach fuzz on his cheeks.
“You won’t regret it.”
Jeon Jungkook has gone on six dates over the last ten days. You know, because you’ve helped him pick out outfits for each of them, seated at the edge of his bed with your knees folded and a bag of white cheddar popcorn in your grubby little paws.
It’s not that he isn’t stylish - you both know he is - but there’s a certain finesse to dressing for dates, to knowing the likes and dislikes of your potential partner and playing to those.
He, to no one's surprise, does not have this finesse. If it were up to him, he’d wear his favourite clothes every day, different jeans and joggers in medium-wash denim and impossibly soft cotton. He’d swap his Balenciaga separates in and out and stick with the finely tailored Gucci suit he calls his lucky ticket (ew). He’d live in those stupid two-toned sneakers and barely do his hair, allowing it to become a powder puff reminiscent of old Hollywood movies.
The girls would probably still love it. (It’s easy to love him.)
“What do you think?” It’s low-cut black, relaxed in the shoulders and flattering in the torso. It holds him just right, hugging the muscle that threads across his shoulders like armour, coils around his upper arms and makes his tattoos stand in stark relief where the sleeves end, mid-forearm.
It looks good— but then again, a lot of things look good on him. He wants great.
You answer honestly, because that’s what you do and that’s what he has you there for. To knock him down when his (admittedly small) ego gets a little too big, remind him of his hubris like the summer sun upon his candle wax wings. “Not bad…”
You don’t even need to finish the thought for him to be tugging the shirt over his head, back flexed, ink-strewn fingers gripping the hem.
Not for the first time, you’re reminded of just how unfair life is.
How had Jungkook - bona fide dork, certifiable shy guy - been gifted one of the best bodies in human existence? (You wish you were joking.) It was utterly absurd, a complete waste on someone who’d only learnt to utilise his good looks in the last five months you’d known him.
“This one?” He’s grabbing another hanger, all but thrusting it into your face. Medium-weight cashmere. Probably too hot for a night like tonight but you’ve seen it on him before and it hugs him like a lover, displaying his best assets (titties) and drawing attention to the narrow shape of his waist. It’s the equivalent of a little black dress.
“Look at you go,” you tease, mouth full of mirth and popcorn kernels. “Throw that Juun.J trench you have overtop and you’ll be set.”
Jungkook nods sagely, as if your word is law. You suppose it is.
“Thanks, ____,.” He says it in that sweet way of his, eyes lost to the weight of his gratitude.
Your response is a shrug. “Bring me back some dessert and we’ll be even.” You don’t know where he’s going tonight but you figure it’s one of the many restaurants you’d recommended earlier in the week when he’d started lining up his various dates. You know there’ll be something good on the menu.
He promises he will as he slides the turtleneck on, tucking it into the dark trousers he’d picked up days ago, and redoes the slim black Rag & Bone belt around his waist. You have to admit - you’ve done another great job of styling him. Simple yet painstakingly attractive, playing at all the little bits of Jungkook’s best qualities without outlining them in bright red ink. Understated but elegant, effortless yet seriously hot.
Maybe you should quit your day job and become the female Hitch. That was a viable plan, right?
You’re mulling it over when you realise your walking Ken doll is making toward his bedroom door, wallet clasped in one hand and phone in the other. “Hey! You’re leaving already?” It’s polite surprise that colours your words, stare drawn to the screen of your iPhone. It’s only 6 PM and the reservation isn’t for another hour.
There’s a sheepish look creeping over his features, painting itself in delicate strokes that you spy past the line of his smile, how the skin crinkles around his eyes. For a moment, he’s the shy Jungkook you’d met in your store and not the one that now bleeds careful confidence, filling his little black book (read: phone contacts) with names as easily as he breathes. “I was, uh, going to stop and get f-flowers.” A silver-lined hand scrubs across his nape, dislodges the carefully styled waves he’s settled for.
Flowers, huh? Well, that’s certainly something new. Good for him, you think.
“Jeon Jungkook, going all out.” It’s heavy on the teasing, playful mockery lending a warmth to your words. “She’s special.”
Which you’d figured, given he was seeing her. Repeats were rare for him now that he’d learned how to weed out the bad seeds, held his hand a little closer to his heart (at least, sometimes). Since he’d started dating again, this would be the first time he’d be going on a second date. It’s a big deal.
“Yeah—“ Nervousness sparks across his face, lights up his stare like the stars in the night sky. “I guess she is.”
You smile fondly, like a proud mother. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
“I will,” he promises, looking so giddy it makes your heart swell ten sizes.
You don’t even think anything of it as you follow him out of his room, bag of popcorn neatly rolled under your arm and your socks slid back into place. It’s only when he levels you with a strange stare, pauses in the shrugging on of his coat, that you return his look. “What?”
“Where are you going?”
“Leaving?”
“Why?”
Wasn’t that the million dollar question?
You don’t normally leave, usually waiting here at home for him until he returns to give you a rundown of his date (and the promised appetizer/dessert/whatever). It feels somehow wrong to stay, though, as if you’re taking up space that doesn’t belong to you. He’s going on a second date, after all. Soon enough, he won’t need your help picking out clothes or deciding on a restaurant. You won’t get to curl up on your usual corner of his sectional, wrapped up in the obnoxiously soft blanket you’d convinced him to buy one night while online shopping.
But it’s fine. Totally, one hundred and ten percent fine. The two of you are friends. You’d always expected - anticipated, hoped - this day would come. Baby boy was growing up.
“Y’know.” You answer a second too late and he’s still wearing that odd expression, handsome face flooded with something that looks like disappointment. It flickers in the bits of his stare you can make out past his fringe, partially concealed by the dark silk that you know feels as soft as it looks.
“I know?” He never tries to read your mind - knows it’s utterly useless.
You wiggle your hand dismissively. “Second date and all that.”
Jungkook giggles - the same deceptively sweet sound he always makes - and finishes tugging his jacket on. It fits him so well it should be illegal, falling to his knees and ending just shy of the intricate laces of his boots. “Just stick around. I’ll drive you home when I get back.”
It’s something he always does - his way of saying thank you for putting up with all of his first date jitters, his outfit changes, his worrying over how to first approach a girl on Tinder - so you don’t doubt him. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
He beams, caught halfway out the door. “Tell me to break a leg.”
“Go break her back,” you retort to the sound of his laughter.
You’re almost asleep when your phone starts going off, the vibrations jolting you awake. It rattles across the glass table, won’t shut the hell up until you’re slamming your hand atop it, glaring at the screen as it lights up with notifications.
It’s almost 2 AM and they’re from Jungkook. This can only mean one thing.
from jeon jungkook: Hey.
from jeon jungkook: I’m really sorry but I won’t be home tonight.
from jeon jungkook: If you want to stay over, I can drive you back in the morning.
from jeon jungkook: Please don’t be mad.
Leave it to him to apologise for getting his dick wet - to feel bad about having a successful second date. It makes you laugh as you stare down at the texts, tap a quick response you know will have his heart racing. (Even after months of friendship, it’s hard not to tease him just a little bit.)
to jeon jungkook: i officially hate you
The typing notification gives him away immediately, but the moment you do the same, he stops. Of course. He hates confrontation - would rather leap off a cliff-face than deal with negative emotions. (He’d told you that once, over a night of beer and fried tteok.)
to jeon jungkook: it’s fine! have fun!
to jeon jungkook: turn her world upside down 😏
He doesn’t answer after that but the read receipt pops up. Good, you think. About time he finds someone nice. You wonder what she’ll be like when you meet her.
Jungkook’s third date comes with another third - you.
He drags you along to dinner, insisting there’s nothing at all weird about the fact. He has to repeat it at least four times during the drive there, head nodding like a plastic bobblehead as he weaves in and out of traffic.
“I want you to meet her,” he mumbles, like that makes it better. As if bringing a friend along to a date with that reasoning means it’s totally acceptable and not on the list of Hard No’s When Dating.
“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?” He’s too focused on changing lanes to answer you, signalling before seamlessly drifting over. (He’s an impressively responsible driver, but that’s unsurprising.) You repeat yourself.
“It’s not… weird.” But you have a feeling that he knows how odd the request is. Knows and doesn’t care, unfortunately. “She wants to meet you too.”
(When had Jungkook turned into this person who argued with you?)
You somehow highly doubt that. No girl in her right mind would leap at the chance to meet her potential beau’s wingwoman. It’s something reserved for official status, when the foundation is set. Still, you play into his hand, level him with a stare he should recognise. It’s the one you throw his way any time he’s too nice, gives a mile when he shouldn’t even offer an inch. (It doesn’t come as often anymore, but it still makes appearances once in a while.)
“What does she even know about me?”
“That we’re friends.” His vague response speaks volumes. The look changes - grows into a glare that has him furtively peeking at you from the corner of his periphery. When he speaks, it feels like a dead giveaway. “That I really value your opinion.”
You groan, a noise so loud it rattles around in the car and interrupts the ballad playing through the speakers.
“She’s trying to figure out if I’m competition or not!” Of course. It’s obvious. She wants to know what she’s getting into it before things get too serious, determine if her Prince Charming is really all that. (He is.) “I’m not coming to dinner.”
“You’re already in the car,” he reasons.
You note he doesn’t deny your first statement, mouth rounding into a pout that should crush your resolve. Instead, it drives you mad, irritation bubbling in your throat.
“I just won’t go in.”
“____,.” When he says it like that, it’s hard to deny him. Jungkook might not utilise his charms often but when he does, it’s lethal. Undeniable with those dumb Bambi eyes of his.
“No.”
“____,,” he repeats, almost pleading. You can’t look at him. You won’t. The moment you do, you’ll be sucked into the swirling vortex that makes up his stare - a million pretty little lights caught in the brown of his iris, so many possibilities you’d lose yourself trying to explore them all.
You last a whole ten seconds before his staring becomes too much, those round eyes tracking you in the rearview mirror until you’re relenting, softening in the way that only he can cause.
“Fine.” You hate how it sounds rolling off your tongue, terse and a little pissed off. You’re not actually mad. Just worried. You’ve seen situations like this play out - not that you’ve been in this position before - but female friends and potential girlfriends just don’t go hand-in-hand. It takes a very special kind of person to facilitate a meeting this early and you are not that person. You’re ragged edges, uneven temperament, distrust that you can’t help.
Jungkook knows that. Should, anyway. You’ve grown close over the last nearly half a year.
When he mumbles a quiet sorry, turns to rest his chin against his knuckles as he drives, you know he means it. He’d never put you in this position if it didn’t mean a lot to him - if his own happiness wasn’t somehow also on the line. (Truthfully, it’s your fault. All that self-love encouragement was coming back to bite you in the ass.)
You grumble an obligatory acceptance as the streetlights fly by. You’ve got a reputation to uphold.
“You’re paying for my dinner.”
“Of course.”
How many times have you pictured this same situation, watched it unfold on your television screen as the protagonist gasps wildly, hand at their throat? How many times have you laughed at the exchange, snickering into your palm as the romantic interest makes some wild declaration of love and wins the protagonist’s heart?
Answer: you’ve lost count.
Still, it doesn’t prepare you to be thrust beneath the spotlight, half-dreaming and terribly confused.
“What’re you doing here?” At any other time, it might be as reproachful as you want, full of disapproval and sleepiness. Here and now, it’s slurred speech and the lines of your pillow dug into the softness of your cheek, lashes dusted with sleep and breath freshly minted.
Jungkook’s oddly surprised, considering he’s appeared unannounced at your doorstep at the crack of dawn (not really). “C-can I come in?”
You don’t budge. It’s not because you’re about to say no, but because you’re still really tired. So tired you stare at him for a moment too long, zoning out as you drink in his appearance. He’s wearing the clothes from last night - the same animal-print silk shirt that hangs obscenely low and reveals too much skin. You recognise it because you’d picked it out for his date.
(The one where he was supposed to ask Jiwon to be his girlfriend, you fail to note.)
You repeat yourself around a yawn, ignoring the way your vowels crash into each other and barely make it to the light of day. “What’re you doing, Jungkookie?”
“Please let me in,” the doe-eyed prince at your door mumbles, gaze bouncing somewhere beyond your shoulder, over your face, to the wayward strands that’re the result of sleeping too well. Everywhere but your eyes.
“Fine,” you huff, stepping back to allow him over the threshold. You don’t miss the way he smells - his signature cologne and something else. If you had to guess, it’s her perfume. It’s distinctly floral, drawing you into a garden of roses. You don’t know if you like it.
Without a second glance, you’re shuffling away from him, dragging your slippered feet into the kitchen.
You move on autopilot, spooning coffee grounds into the Chemex filter. You don’t bother asking whether your surprise guest wants any - assume he does, because the fiend somehow lives on caffeine - and settle against the counter as you wait for your kettle to whistle.
You’re still so tired you feel like you might fall asleep standing up but you think you do a good enough job of levelling Jungkook with a solid stare. “So?”
“W-what?”
It’s been so long since you’ve last heard his stutter that it surprises you, recentres your attention from your own exhaustion and has you frowning. Something’s happened. Must have. There’s no other explanation for it - for how he looks at you, so uncertain like all those months ago when you’d smashed his glass house to pieces.
“What’s going on?” You’re demanding, full to the brim with concern as you round on him. He flinches away as if your words have burnt him, leaning into the stainless steel side of your fridge.
(Silly Jungkook - that won’t protect you.)
“What do you mean?”
The early hour has, luckily, dampened your usual aggression. He’s stalling, you can tell. You hate when he does this. You tell him as much, glowering at him as he tries to shrink his nearly six foot frame into something small. “You’ve showed up at my house unannounced. What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?”
He looks as if he’s on the brink of repeating himself, biting it back behind his neat white teeth when your expression grows darker, more frustrated.
It’s impossible to stay dressed in red, lethargy swathing you up like a cocoon and softening your edges. You sigh heavily - perhaps a little overdramatically - and go about completing your coffee ritual. Patience works best with Jungkook, you’ve learned. (Though, he sorely tests your own sometimes.)
With a steaming mug in your hand and the other passed over to him, you gesture toward your living room.
He nods once - a small up and down of his head.
“So.” You try again, softer this time, warmed by the heat that permeates ceramic and settles your sleep-ravaged nerves. You’re seated cross-legged on your couch, facing him with your back pressed to the arm rest. He’s half-turned to you, coffee cup slotted between his thighs. Feet turned in, mouth wobbling with the intensity of how hard he’s chewing into his bottom lip.
“I couldn’t do it.” The words rush out too fast, tumble into each other in such a way you have to take a second to comprehend what he’s said. Couldn’t do… it?
You stare at each other for a long while, you trying to understand and him refusing to meet your stare.
When realisation dawns on you, you can only imagine how you look. It must be terrifying by how Jungkook practically tries to crawl into the cushions of your couch, shoulders rising around his ears like a turtle.
“You didn’t ask her?” It explodes out, a question that demands an answer.
He’s staring past your head, unblinking. You’d almost worry he was a robot if his voice weren’t so damned human, full of melancholy and rounded by his lisp. “I c-couldn’t. It was just…” The shrug he offers is half-assed at best, not nearly good enough to excuse him.
“Just what?”
“Just—” There’s the wiggly hand gesture you do that he’s adopted, his ink-strewn hand waving through the air like a floppy chicken foot. He thinks it’ll earn him a pass but your unrelenting glare indicates otherwise. He deflates, hand falling back to his lap, clutching his mug like it's a makeshift security blanket. “It didn’t feel right.”
What did that even mean? Feel right?
Love didn’t just appear, fully-formed and complete. It took work and dedication and the understanding it could all come crashing down. Didn’t he understand that? Hadn’t you drilled that into his head?
You exhale through gritted teeth, push breath past enamel that acts like a solid steel gate.
“Jungkook, it’s not going to just ‘feel right.’” You’re air quoting, all tact thrown out the window. “You like her, don’t you?”
You expect him to nod immediately. He doesn’t.
“Jungkook.”
“Yeah?”
“You like her, right?”
“I think so.”
You want to tear your own hair out. Instead, you press the pads of your fingers into your temple - apply pressure in hopes of alleviating the tension that settles there. “So, you like her.” It feels a bit bad, condescending in a way; you don’t mean it in any way but supportive. You just want him to be happy. “But you couldn’t ask her out because it didn’t feel right?”
“She’s not you.”
He’s looking at you now, looks like he might have a heart attack if he does so any longer. But he doesn’t tear his gaze away when you meet it, entire expression warped into something you don’t recognise. Hope, maybe? Fear?
“What?” You wish it were hard rather than feather light, almost lost to the cacophony in your head.
The hollow of his cheek is thrown into stark relief, the line of his jaw clenched tight. He repeats himself even as you’re the one looking away, shaking your head as if that might will away the irksome answer. (It won’t.)
“Don’t say things like that.”
It’s hurt that flashes through his expression and strikes you right in the centre of your chest. His face crumbles, brows knit together beneath his mop of shiny hair. He looks so terribly sad - a kicked puppy, an abandoned deer. Bambi, through and through.
“You asked why I didn’t do it,” he reasons in a voice far more solid than he looks.
“I didn’t think you’d say something so ridiculous.” It’s cruel. “You’re making a bad choice. You’re into this girl. Don’t be dumb.”
His features rearrange, then so do his limbs, entire body lifting from his seat in jerky, disjointed movements. “I’m not dumb.” There’s a reproachful quality to his words, a distaste he doesn’t bother to mask. It’s not something you’ve ever faced, surprising you enough to draw your eyes to his face.
He doesn’t look like the Jungkook you know.
When he leaves - sets his cup in the sink and storms out the way he’d come before you have time to stop him - you wonder if you ever knew him at all.
“Okay. Spill.”
Yejin’s tired of your abrasiveness, tired of having her head bitten off every time she tries to approach you with a question. You can’t blame her. You’ve felt like shit the last week, sleep-deprived and generally pissed off.
All because of a doe-eyed idiot.
“What?” It’s less snark, more sigh. You’re counting down the minutes until you’re free, until you can curl back up in your bed and try to sleep like you’ve done the last four days.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” she hums, trailing after you as you move behind the counter. “You’ve been in a bad mood all week. I’ve never seen you this upset like, ever.” She’s right, of course. You’ve always been very careful to keep business separate, pushing the customer service agenda no matter what. “Did something happen?”
You grit your teeth. An expletive careens off your tongue when you slam the tip of your finger within the drawer you’d just shut.
“____,” she tries again, concerned.
“Nothing happened.”
“See, I don’t believe that because like, look at you!” She gesticulates wildly, adorned wrists clinking loudly. “You look like hell—”
“Thanks.”
“—and you’re being clumsy and like, I think I know you well enough. So just tell me?”
You hate that she’s right. It doesn’t mean you’ll relent, too caught up in your own strange brand of strength to unload. (Maybe it’d be helpful. Probably. But you’ve never found comfort in other people. At least, not like this.)
“Yejin.” Her name stops her in her tracks, hurried and insistent as you pull your coat on. “It’s fine. Really.” You’re swallowing your pride - practically choking on it - as you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile. “I just need to get some sleep.” And figure out what the hell to do about Jungkook, but that’s a can of worms you refuse to open and certainly not here.
Maybe at home, over a glass of wine, fueled by liquid courage.
The bottle of Côtes du Rhône has aided you more than you’d hoped, offered an armour that slinks over your shoulders and drives your fingers to action. It’s prompted something - started the ball rolling.
(Idly, you think that might not have been a very good idea, but it’s too late to care now.)
“You’re here.” You being him and him being Jeon Jungkook, hair damp and imposing frame draped in an oversized sweater. He looks terribly uncomfortable standing in your doorway - more so than he had days ago - hands shoved into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, dumb sneakers pigeon-toed as if he’s ready to take flight.
“Y-you asked,” he mutters, refusing to meet your stare. At least, you think he’s refusing. It’s a little hard to focus when there’s this fine film turning everything hazy, the bitter taste of wine heavy on your tongue.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
He looks at you like you’re crazy then, though he never quite meets your eyes. It’s a smart tactic - level you with a look then immediately bounce it away. It has you coming back for more, eager to refocus his fretful gaze until it’s locked with your own.
“Will you come in?” You sidestep, give him enough space that he can enter without feeling suffocated. He still hesitates, takes a second too long in deciding. “I won’t bite.”
You don’t miss the better promise that comes under his breath.
“So.” This feels oddly familiar, him backed into the corner of your couch again while you settle across from him. He hums a noise but offers nothing further.
This is how it’ll be then. Fine. If he wants to be this way.
“You like me.”
He sputters - doesn’t mean to, by how big his eyes go. He hadn’t expected it to come barreling out of your mouth. “I— I don’t— I didn’t say that.”
If it were anyone but him, you’d take his reticence as rudeness.
“Tell me why.”
The poor boy blinks, stares at you full on now. Can’t look away, locked in the intensity of your stare.
“W-what?”
“Tell me.” You sip carefully at the liquid in your glass, swirl it ‘round and ‘round. “You said that girl wasn’t me but you haven’t made a case as to why that matters. What have I got that she doesn’t?”
“You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack, Jungkookie.”
The brunet swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. You think he might say no, outright refuse. You don’t expect him to start rattling things off like the list lives in his head, answers printed against the darks of his eyelids.
“You’re funny. You’re honest. You speak your mind.” You don’t mean to scoff but his reasons are so shallow - so easily found in other people. He must read the doubt in your expression, pushing on to cut you off from doing the same to him. “Y-you care about people even when you pretend like you don’t. You’re just as scared of being hurt as I am.”
For the first time in a long time - in years and years - you feel seen. As if he’s pulled back the cover of your unpublished draft, memorised the redlines and notes in the margins.
“I don’t—”
“You have this face you make when you’re proud of me.” He’s turning his own fingers over in his lap, knuckles white from the strain of locking them together and undoing them again. “When I do something you approve of or when I make you laugh.”
There’s something thick in your throat.
“You make me want to try.” He clears his own, speaks so softly you have to strain to hear it. “Y-you make things not so scary.”
It grows heavier, harder to breathe as you stare at the man sitting across from you. He’s focused wholly on his hands, too caught up in his words to help the way he plucks at his skin, fiddles with the silver chain that loops around his wrist.
“You know what I need, even before I know myself. You make me laugh.” He laughs, an almost choked sound that fizzles and rattles bashfully. “You look really, really good in your work skirt.” You know the one he means - all black, pencil-fit. Makes your legs look a mile long, despite the fact that they aren’t.
You can’t help but join him, a little breathless, with a strange sensation behind your ribs. Like sunshine on a cold day, filtering past the walls you’ve put up, streaming through the windows that’d replaced drywall when Jungkook had waltzed into your life with his fluffy hair and boyish laugh.
When you speak, you don’t even believe your own words. They come of their own accord - a defense mechanism. “I can’t.”
As if he knows - as if he’s got a polygraph going, Jungkook shakes his head, meets your eyes and holds you there with the intensity of his attention. “Can’t or won’t?”
“I—”
“I’m not asking for the world here. Just a chance.” He’s got a peculiar look on his face. “Don’t you think you owe it to me?”
“Excuse me?”
All of a sudden, he’s close. Closer than you’d expect, far closer than he should be. There’s nothing beyond his expression, the way his eyes twinkle under the dimmed apartment lights as he stares you down. The scent of his cologne is cloying now, the fading nectarine hint of his shampoo making your mouth water.
“You kind of ruined my life. I think this makes us fair.”
You sputter, gasp, make sounds that careen off your tongue and fill the air with nonsense. You’d ruined his life? (You’d made it better - made him see the light, you thought.) You’re working to find your voice, ready to tear into him for this abrupt accusation.
Then he’s giggling, nose scrunched and delight filtering past his teeth.
“I’m kidding.”
It feels like whiplash. You’ve created a monster.
“But you do owe me, I think. So why not?”
You only have yourself to blame when you say yes, conceding to his pretty eyes and sweet smile.
Dating Jungkook is easy - as effortless as breathing. He’s a bona fide dreamboat plucked from your wildest dreams.
He texts when he says he will and picks you up every night, stamping a kiss to your cheek the moment you’ve clocked out. He holds your hand and refuses to let go, rubbing soothing circles over your wrist when you’re tired or stressed or annoyed. He brings flowers to every date - insists on them even when you tell him they’re a waste of money. He knows your coffee order, has learned the art of the pour over when he wakes up before you.
You understand now, why he’d stayed with women who were terrible for him (to him). If you were them, you wouldn’t have let him go either. Would lock him up in an old tower like your own personal Rapunzel.
(You say that because you’ve been on a Disney movie binge. He is, unsurprisingly, very into these sorts of things.)
“Open it,” he pleads, pushing the luxurious pink box towards you.
You stare down at the lid, the Agent Provocateur label glaring back at you. You can’t help how you laugh, sound bouncing around his bedroom. “Are you trying to tell me something, Jungkookie?”
Your lover - not boyfriend, because you haven’t had the talk and it’s still new and you’ve never been this careful before - rolls his eyes, pushes the box closer with a huff. It’s adorable.
“Just open it.”
You finger the soft bow strapped across the top, play with the neatly cut ends. You can feel the impatience radiating off Jungkook, feel those pretty doe eyes boring holes into the top of your head. You take your time even more now, unravelling the ribbon with slow, measured twists of your wrist.
Whatever you’d expected to find nestled among the tissue paper, this isn’t it.
You’d imagined he’d be into something feminine, all pristine white lace and scalloped cups. Something he could brush his cheek against, run his fingers over.
Tucked within the box is something that doesn’t even earn the title of lingerie, a few flimsy straps bonded together. Blush pink satin and dressed with buckles, you turn it over in your hands, trying to make sense of the way it all connects. Surely there’s more to this. Surely, darling innocent Jeon Jungkook doesn’t expect you to wear just this?
“Do you like it?” You can sense the eagerness in his voice, that desire he has to please that seems to never go away.
“What is it?”
“It’s a playsuit.”
“A playsuit?” You’re no stranger to experimenting in the bedroom but this— this looks like it’s meant to harness a dog in. Would it even fit? Soft as it is, it seems terribly restrictive, made for someone with model proportions and no body fat at all.
He nods, round eyes so bright, so hopeful, you can’t voice your concerns. “Will you wear it?”
It fits you better than you’d expected. Or at least, you think it does. If Jungkook’s reaction was any indication, it’s heaven sent - the perfect gift wrapping for a present he’s been dying to claim.
The buckles you’d studied earlier - that had taken you too long to strap together - dig into the tender flesh of your hips, the shape of his fingers imprinted along the metal. He grips you so tight you think you might bruise, left with a reminder of his love for weeks.
“S-so wet,” he groans, sound dropping into an almost whine as the swollen mushroom head of his cock brushes through your folds. The satin of the playsuit has been long since tugged aside, stained with your arousal as it cuts into the softness of your thighs. He repeats the motion once, twice, coats your clit in pre-cum that leaks out of the slit and adds another layer of slick. “So ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
You nod dumbly, drool around the two fingers he’s got slotted against your cheek, ring finger pressed down over your tongue.
“Use your words, gorgeous.” As if you can, as if you’re not riding the high of your last orgasm and about to come apart beneath his playful teasing.
The palm of his hand meets your overstimulated clit with a sharp smack, the cold of his teeth bared against your neck. He doesn’t like when you don’t answer - much prefers to make an effort even if it’s indiscernible.
“What did I say?”
Something garbled comes, a plea as much as a sob. Another hit lands, just shy of the pearl that throbs with need and pain, landing instead on the sensitive, already red skin of your inner thigh. He soothes it this time around, massages your own wetness into the roses that bloom beneath his touch.
When he speaks again, it’s so utterly sweet, tender as can be. The Jungkook you’ve known for months and not the devil in disguise.
“You like this, don’t you?” His kisses are searing, laced with reverence that feels at odds with the way he forces your gag reflex, taps his curved cock against your pussy. “You like what I’m doing?”
“Y-yes,” you cry, spit pooling past the sides of your mouth, dripping lewdly across your breasts. The hand cradling your chin is all but drenched, dark ink thrown into stark relief by the way it slides over his skin. Jungkook hums against your cheek, licks a fat stripe from shoulder to ear.
“Good girl.” Two fingers spread across over your heat, pointer and index sliding over your lips. You’re spread obscenely - can see it in the mirror that rests against the far wall. Can see how the head of his cock peeks between your thighs, runs the same path over and over with each languid, slow roll of his hips. “Such a good girl for me. My perfect girl.”
Your shoulders shake with the effort you put into nodding, throat clenching on reflex when the three fingers in your mouth flatten over your tongue, hold you steady in place.
“Pretty girl wants more, doesn’t she? Wants me to fill her up?”
He’s teasing you, the bastard. Dragging his aching erection against your cunt as you writhe against him, desperate. It’s amusing to him - you can read the delight in the reflection, see it shining bright like a beacon when he pulls his hand away and recentres it across your chest. Digits tease at the already pebbled buds, swollen and sensitive from how hard he’d sucked them into his mouth earlier.
“Say it. Say you want me.”
You do, without hesitation, without fear. You know he’ll catch you. “I want you.”
He sinks into you the same instant the words fall, holds you tight against him when your entire body begins buzzing and threatens to do the same. Your walls feel like a vice grip around him, greedily sucking in his cock as he slams home, ruts into you like a wild animal.
Strong as he is, he’s weak to the noises you make - the broken sobs that spill off your tongue and make up the prettiest sound he’s ever heard - and how you feel absolutely perfect, wet and warm. The muscle in his thighs strain, pleasure vibrating up the notches of his spine, setting every nerve ending alight with its ascent.
“B-be mine,” he returns, practically begging as he spreads you wide, making you take everything he has to offer. Heart and soul and stupidly huge, perfect cock.
“I am. I am. I am,” you chant, tears welling along your lash line. They fall when his rhythm stutters, when the heat overwhelms and you’re coming for the third time that night, crying his name like it’s the only word you know.
They continue to pour, carve trails down your reddened cheeks as you reach nirvana, wait for moment he’s right there with you. It doesn’t take long - a few more punishing thrusts into your fluttering heat - and then he’s found his bliss, crying into the silk of your hair, spilling inside you.
It doesn’t happen how you thought it would - a shy question poised over dinner, sealed with a sweet kiss on the way to the car - but it means just as much. Breaks you apart as it rebuilds you, fills you up as it splits your seams.
You’re his and he’s always been yours.
tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @shaybtsforever @we-found-wonderland-in-1989 @justanothergirlfromeurope @jalexad @bonnyskies @coffeeismylife28 @haeilove @purplespaceymermaid @sunsetsnsirens-blog @beingbeings @veronawrites @notmontae97 @papillonsgf i’m really hoping i didn’t miss anyone e___e
#goldenclosetnet#magicshopnet#ficswithluv#thebtswritersclub#networkbangtan#heartsforbts#bts#bts au#bts imagine#bts fic#bts oneshot#bts angst#bts smut#bts jungkook#jeon jeongguk#jeon jungkook#jungkook#jungkook au#jungkook imagine#jungkook fic#jungkook oneshot#jungkook fluff#jungkook angst#jungkook smut#jungkook x oc#jungkook x reader#work.zip#oneshot.zip#devil.doc#jungkook.doc
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