#Fragrance Beyond Personal Perfuming | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starsforxavi · 2 months ago

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his beloved ⁘ rafayel

·······•✦ description: After a long day, you surprise Rafayel with an attempt at a 'love spell', and he's more than happy to play along with his beloved. [Inspired by 'Tidefall Allure']

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

“This blindfold is ineffective, beloved.” Husky notes turn deeper in his voice, lingering on your skin like the perfume you’ve sprayed on all your pulse points. “I can see the shimmering moonlight, the endless tide, and a goddess in the flesh.”

·······•✦ pairing: rafayel x afab!reader ·······•✦ word count: 3.5k ·······•✦ genre: smut, porn with plot, fluff ·······•✦ general tags: Established Relationship, Lingerie, Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Soft sex, Body Worship, Praise Kink, Scent Kink, Cunnilingus, Multiple Orgasms, Sexual Overstimulation, Aftercare, pet names - beloved, Rafayel is down bad you guys, Vaginal Sex, Come Swallowing, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Creampie, Praise, Not Beta Read, Missionary Position, Kissing, Gentle Kissing, Neck Kissing, Based loosely on a secret times, Present Day Rafayel, not merman, (perhaps another day), POV Second Person, No use of y/n

·······•✦ posted on: ao3

“What did you have to show me, beloved?” Rafayel’s voice rings out like a bell through his living room, confusion and interest mingled into his words. After a long day of phone calls and staring at a blank canvas, it’s a gentle reprieve to have you in his presence.

“It’s a surprise.” You respond from behind him, your feet tapping on the floor of his bedroom as you toy with the small pearls and gems adorning your outfit. It’s simple lingerie, but the design reminded you so much of Rafayel that you needed to get it. “Close your eyes.”

“They’re closed.” A huff of air comes, and you step out to see the back of his head, fluffy purple hair framing his neck and broad shoulders as he lounges on his couch.

A strip of silk is bunched in your hand, and with bare feet on the tile floor, you’re able to sneak up to right behind him. “I have a love spell… I want to cast on you.”

The sound of your voice right behind him sends a shiver through Rafayel, the warmth of your body almost touching him before you’re dangling the piece of silk. He’s about to argue, because he already loves you, beyond mortal words, but letting you have your fun is part of the excitement, so he nods. “Alright, and what does that entail?”

“First,” the silk hovers just over his eyes, and at the tickle on his nose, his magenta irises make an appearance, “I’m gonna put this blindfold on you.”

“This ritual is very complex…” He teases, the pink silk doing little to nothing to shroud his eyesight. As soon as the tie is tight enough on the back of his head, you walk around to face him.

His legs are parted, an invitation of just your name on his lap as his head nods along the expanse of your body. A flush of pink that almost matches the blindfold paints his cheeks, and you step between his knees, your body so close to him that he can almost hear the soft clinking of the pearls and gems that decorate the lingerie.

Rolling your eyes, you scoff lightly, only to be cut off by his fingers wrapping around your wrist. Your faces are inches apart when he tugs, bringing you down to eye level with him. “What’s this?” He makes an exaggerated sniffing noise, the tip of his nose nudging your jaw. “Are you using this oceanic fragrance to guide me?”

A rush of air escapes you, breaking free from the prison of your lungs that keeps it trapped there. “Well…”

“It should linger in the… appropriate places.” His lips brush the skin of your neck, a featherlight kiss finding a home behind your ear. “From here,” he starts there, and instead of kisses, his nose drags a trail down your neck, your shoulder, your arm, all the way to the inside of your wrist that he holds so reverently. A kiss, and then: “to here.”

Beneath the blindfold, his gaze shifts to your face, taking in the way the moonlight accentuates your beauty. Like a goddess stepping from the shadows, he’s rendered breathless by the senses that overwhelm him in the best way. “Until the scent fully permeates your skin.”

“Even this…” It’s you who is brought to silence, unable to do anything except bend to his will as his hands find a home on your hips, bringing you closer until you're standing straight and looking down at him as if he were a mere devotee to the woman before him. Taking a slow breath in, he lets the scent sit in his mind, bringing him back centuries ago. “It’s a recipe that’s potent enough to ignite a god’s desire.”

Shining blue scales flash across his neck and ears, twinkling like Christmas lights in the night sky. The silk does nothing to stop the pink flash in Rafayel’s eyes as he gives himself to your heart. It’s his, and yet he’s willing to carve out his own chest for whatever you want.

“Your scales are coming out again.” You point out, your fingers carding through his hair. Warmth sits on your skin in the form of his lips along the edge of your panties.

The lingerie, which is a subtle pale blue with adornments of pearls and gems, washes over Rafayel, and his body responds in turn. His instincts as a god can’t ever take over when he’s marveling at such beauty.

“The scales on my body?” He hums against your skin, his tongue poking out to trace each part of your abdomen that his lips can reach. “They appear during certain… special moments.” The silk of the blindfold tickles your hip. “You should know that well, beloved.”

One of his hands wraps around you to settle on the curve of your ass, holding you in such a grip like iron shackles. Unable to move - but you don’t want to move, but also unable to get closer as the fingers tighten on your waist.

Rafayel wants to take his time, his head dipping to kiss the junction of your thigh and hip, right below your panty line, and so close to where you need him. The smacking noises of his lips accompany low moans, as if worshipping you like this was bringing him his own pleasure.

“I do…” You whisper, looking down at his white slacks. Not a drop of paint is on them, and the canvas behind you is completely empty. “I know.”

The statue that sits in the corner of his living room calls out to him, and as he lifts his head, the blindfold slips down his face, curling around his neck in a pink lace necklace. The same beauty that he worshipped so long ago is painted in the small details of your face. The same eyes. The same curve of your nose. The same smile on your lips. It’s all you. It’s always been you.

“Y’know, they come out even more when a particularly devout offering is presented to me.” With his chin perched on your stomach, he stares up at you with glowing pink eyes. The blue is but a sliver of softness that inches in before being swallowed by the magenta hue, not putting up a fight with the crackling pink that highlights his striking beauty.

“And I’m the offering?” More kisses run along your body, his hold tightening and fingers pressing into the flesh of your behind as he inhales your scent. It’s a mix of your natural musk and the sea water fragrance you’ve used, but it’s all a delicious draw.

As if you were a siren and he were a lowly pirate, he nods. “Always.” His attention is directed toward your skin, reverent kisses worshipping every inch of you in a way that you don’t know what’s love and what’s pure desire. “I won’t be taking any other offerings besides the one standing before me.”

Then, he stands. “It’s just you and I here.” The muscles in his arms flex as he picks you up, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist. The pearls clink together with each step he takes toward his bedroom, and his lips find the side of your neck while his palms sit below your thighs. “No one will disturb us.”

The moonlight is brighter in his room, with one wall being completely windows. It’s a frame to the scene before him. You, lying on the bed with the lingerie you bought for him. You, whose heart beats for him. You, who can have him on his knees with just a look.

You, who is his for the rest of eternity. You… His beloved bride.

The blue scales still illuminate his features, the edge of his jaw like a blade that threatens to pierce your skin. His eyes, regarding others with a silent disregard, look down at you with a gentle affection.

“Is this for me?” He asks, his finger dipping under the waistband of your panties.

A nod answers him, and he leans down to kiss right beside the strap of your bra. Without thinking, a light touch brushes his ear, the scales chilly to the touch. It isn’t until he lets out a sharp breath that an apology tumbles from your lips.

“You’re allowed to touch these scales because your attempt succeeded.” He rasps, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tugs on the panties. “Now, I want you to reveal your innermost self to me, beloved.”

“Please…” You whimper, lifting your hips to allow him to strip your lower half of the lingerie. It disappoints him for a moment because you’re so beautiful with the blessings of the sea decorating your body, but he needs all of you.

Lying in the middle of the bed, the ocean waves are the backdrop to your glistening pussy. Heat ignites in Rafayel’s chest, his skin crackling like a hearth that is never-ending flame.

His shoulder anchors your legs, bracketing the scales on the sides of his head. They are the perfect headphones for the breaths and whimpers that erupt from your throat. His heated and gentle kisses start at your knee, strolling up your leg like a bride walking down the aisle.

“Since you’ve awakened the desire that rests deep within this god’s heart…” The pink in his eyes crackles in a fire, each blink bringing him deeper and deeper into that desire you’ve coaxed from him.

The ghost of his lips haunts you, so close to your throbbing need that you want to buck up and chase that pleasure, but you’re held down by his flexing biceps. Each breath fans out across your soaked folds, a lewd noise coming when he parts you with just his thumbs.

His eyes meet yours, swimming in need and desire yet edged in a slow ebbing of devotion. As if you were a painting, he’s brought back to the statue, how similar you are, yet so so different. A masterpiece in the flesh, and Rafayel wants nothing more than to paint more strokes of beauty on your skin.

“He wants to devour you. Now.”

A blink and he’s buried between your legs, eyes closed and throat closing with grunts and groans. His tongue dips into you, collecting your essence and moaning at your taste. Every bit of you is swallowed by him, your moans, your taste, the way your fingers tug at his hair while he traces the ring of muscle fluttering around nothing.

“Raf!” Your back arches, your body trying to run away from his mouth and the ferocity that he devours every inch of you, but you’re anchored to the spot, a pristine chain dragging you down to the depths where you can’t escape. “Fu-”

A satisfied hum runs through your body, and as the soft white light flashes across his furrowed brows, you see a man who is irrevocably dedicated to his beloved. Wanting to show you all facets of pleasure and just what he can give without needing to take.

“No… running… away…” He gasps between long licks to your pussy, the tip of his tongue flicking your throbbing clit over and over again. The sensation of his worship already led you to the edge, and it doesn’t take much until your thighs threaten to crush his head and your back leaves the comfortable sheets below.

There’s no reprieve.

Immediately after the first orgasm hits, he just gets more feral. Like his ebb day but worse, his thoughts muddled and full of just one thing: you. Hearing every noise, feeling every clench of your hole around his tongue, tasting every drop of your arousal that is only for him.

“Raf… Please… Raf-”

Your words are cut off when his lips suction around your clit, the sharp stab of pleasureable overstimulation biting at your ankles. It shoots up your nerves, quickening the beat of your heart like you’re watching a horror movie. It’s too good to look away, but the fear of another jumpscare tenses your muscles.

“Relax, beloved.” He whispers against your pussy, his cheeks slick and chin dripping. “Need to hear… more.”

His voice is more profound, more intense than usual, and you fight back the whine as he eagerly devours you like he said he would. Because he would never go back on his promises.

So he takes another, the waves of the ocean playing a part in the warm waves that lap at your abdomen. It’s more pleasure that ebbs into pain, overstimulation hardening your joints and locking your thighs around his head. But Rafayel doesn’t mind. If his end is brought between your legs, his senses full of you, then it’s a pretty good way to go.

“Rafayel.” His full name rolls off your tongue, lips slick with saliva and throat hoarse from the cacophony of whimpers and noises that play on repeat. “I… I’m- please…”

The sound of your desperate whimpers is like music to his ears, but not when he thinks it’s hurting you. So he raises his head, the entire bottom half of his face shining in the moonlight, highlighting the pleasure that he’s given you three times now.

“Are you okay, beloved?” His eyes are more muted, the flaming pink edging into a soft petal of a flower as his hands soothe the tops of your thighs. The edge in his voice is gone, replaced by worry and the rasp of being down there for some amount of time known only to the moon drifting in the sky.

“Yeah… Yeah…” Your breath fills your lungs once more, trapped there while you trace his features with your gaze. He’s still dressed, the short sleeves of his shirt framing his muscles and the white slacks crumpled from the bed, and you watch in fascination as he unbuttons his shirt, sliding it off. His pants follow, the slow drag of his underwear coming with it and leaving him bare to your eyes.

Rafayel lets you breathe, watching the pearls that accentuate your curves and rest across your abdomen, still hanging from the cups of your bra. When he sits back, he sees the tides behind you, beckoning him closer with their soft crashing on the sand. But he would rather crash into you.

“Can you handle one more?” It’s exploratory, just as his hands are as they rub along the sides of your torso, one slipping behind you to pop the clasp of your bra. Just like that, you’re both bare to each other like you’ve been so many times before, but this god is ready to become a follower himself. “Please?”

A chuckle turns into a gasp as his tip nudges your entrance. Ripples of heat run along your skin, threatening to pull you into an even deeper need, and you’re ready to take the plunge.

You reach out a hand to him, wanting to cup his cheek, but you’re surprised to feel his fingers threading through yours, pressing your clasped hands into the mattress above your head. Once again trapped, you meet Rafayel’s eyes, coming closer until his lips ghost over yours.

“Say it, beloved.” He whispers, his other hand dragging his cock through your folds, a hitch in his breath coming when he feels your hole fluttering around him. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes.” A whisper fans across his lips. “One more… Please.”

Mesmerized by his eyes, you both share a moan as he sheathes himself inside you. From your previous orgasms, the resistance is nothing except a slick glide until he’s nudging the most sensitive spot that rips a whimper from your lungs.

“You’re so…” He pauses, needing to take a breath before catching the words from the lake in his mind. “So beautiful.”

His fingers dance up your side, then your arm, your wrist… Finally, they intertwine with your own and join the other set of hands above your head. You’re entirely at his mercy, caught in the trap of his eyes that pulse with each beat of his heart.

With legs parted, you arch your back, the curve of his cock pressing into you over and over as you beg wordlessly for more. Always more… Forever more.

“I’ve got you, beloved.” He whispers into your parted lips, the slow drag of his hips pulling him almost all the way out. “I’ve always got you.”

Each thrust is another declaration of his love, your essence coating your own lips as he kisses you over and over and over. Melting into one flame, the scales on his neck fade slightly, replaced with the real color of his irises.

He’s Rafayel… He always has been… But it seems like a part of him has awoken, and you tilt your head up to meet him halfway, embracing him with your thighs around his waist, aiding him in each pulse of his hips against yours.

The smooth expanse of his pelvis grinds against your clit, the slow, sensual rutting beginning a trek up a tall mountain. The previous orgasms were a quick drop off a water slide, but this is a lazy river, going around a track until the eventual end where you find yourself satisfied and relaxed all at the same time.

“I love you.” He buries his face in your neck, your scent filling his nose, and whimpers resting on his ears. “I love you so much.”

“Love… you… too.” The snap of his hips comes when he’s only an inch away from being fully inside, bouncing your body up the bed. You would be hanging off the edge if he weren’t holding your arms above your head. “I love you… too.” You manage the whole sentence, and he twitches inside you at the saccharine sweet tone in your voice, despite being ruined over and over by him.

“My beloved.” The whimper is different, his chest heaving with the pull of his head toward yours, wanting to become one. To harden into a gem, sink to the depths of the ocean, never to be seen again.

You’re one. One being. One heart. One soul. Belonging to each other like you were made of the same seafoam, finding one another despite the hardships, and always… Always falling in love.

“Rafayel.” Your head digs into the mattress, the slow trek up the summit leading to the tip of the mountain. Oxygen leaves your body in lesser increments, creating a haze around you that edges into incoherence when you hear Rafayel whimper your name like a prayer.

The tsunami is more of a crashing of waves, and your nerves are frayed with the fourth orgasm that tightens your muscles and wraps Rafayel in a cocoon of warmth. He’s there, inside you, filling you with everything he has to offer.

“Beloved…” He whispers again, his knees shaking as each pump of his seed inside you brings another grunt. Twitches of his cock push him even deeper, until he can feel each bump and pulse of your walls around him. “Fuck.”

Minutes.

In the aftermath of your orgasm, you both lie there. His hands now rest in the dips of your hips, and his body shrouds you from the eyes of the stars up above in the sky. How dare they catch a glimpse of his goddess?

“How are you feeling?” His voice breaks through the silence, cutting through the tranquil sound of the tide.

“Good.” A sigh and a breathless chuckle come when he picks himself up just enough to meet your gaze. “Full, and like jelly… But good.”

Rafayel mimics your chuckle, slotting your lips together in an even more gentle kiss than the rest of the night. He cups your cheek, holding you still while he devours your lips with languid strokes of his tongue against yours.

“Why don’t we take a bath together?” He suggests, his lips brushing yours, because he doesn’t want to pull away too far. “I’ll massage your tense muscles.” The caress of his thumb on your cheekbone soothes you, and you whine when his hips move and his softened length slips from your entrance. “And then you can put that lingerie set back on so I can properly admire my beloved.”

A smile breaks out on your lips. “I wore it for all but ten minutes.”

Sitting up, Rafayel picks you up bridal style, cradling you close to his chest. “Well, can you blame me when you looked like an absolute goddess? I thought I was staring at a statue in the Louvre.”

“You flatter me too much.”

His smile reaches his eyes as he turns the faucet on, and steamy water fills the tub. While he waits, he nuzzles his nose against your cheek, and when he speaks again, each word vibrates his chest like he’s reciting a prayer.

“I don’t flatter you enough.”

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whateveriwant · 4 months ago

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I love the headcanon that Simon has had his nose broken multiple times, but I like to take it one step further and imagine: what if Simon’s nose has been broken so many times that it’s permanently affected his sense of smell?

That would explain why the big bastard is so grumpy all the time, right? I mean, wouldn’t you be if you lost one (and more than likely, two) of your five primary senses?

Like, just imagine what it would be like to lose both your sense of smell and taste (because the two are strongly intertwined). It would be like living every day of your life as if you have a bad head cold. It would make eating – something you have to do to survive – a chore instead of something to be enjoyed.

And I know what you’re thinking. No, I’m not about to insert a “British food is bland anyway so it’s not like he’s missing much” joke here. That would be in poor taste (just like their food, hey-oh!)

Okok no but seriously. Imagine what losing those two major senses would do to a person mentally. Knowing Simon, he would probably pretend like it’s no big deal, like it doesn’t matter that everything smells and tastes like the color gray to him, even though secretly that couldn’t be further from the truth.

So imagine if that didn’t have to be the case any longer. Imagine if there was something – say, nasal surgery – that could restore those abilities he almost forgot he had once upon a time. (I’m not a doctor so I don’t know if surgery would work, but let’s just run with it, ok?)

For starters, I don’t think he’d be the one to initially seek out a treatment. The idea would have to come from an outside source (like from you, his loving partner) and it would take a lot of convincing to get him to go under the knife.

But say that you are able to convince him to have the surgery; that you get him to agree to have his bones rebroken and properly set this time, to have his olfactory nerves reattached to the places they’d been severed from. What would it be like to sit beside him as he wakes up and takes that first, deep inhale? What would it be like to witness him experience the power of smelling again for the first time in what feels like forever?

Would he be overwhelmed? Underwhelmed? Something that’s impossible for him to put into precise words?

And what would be the first smell that sticks out to him? The medicinal air of his hospital room? The clean aroma of his bed linens? The coppery tang of his own blood congealing around his sutures?

Realistically, I don’t think it would be until he goes home that any real change is apparent to you. It’s once he has the freedom to do whatever he wants, like a former shelter dog getting to explore the world for the first time, that you’d notice the drastic switch in him.

All of a sudden, Simon would be super adventurous when it comes to trying new foods. In the past, he just shoveled down whatever tasteless slop would keep his body fueled. But now, he’d find the fun in trying all sorts of different cuisines, ordering entire menus at a time to discover what he does and doesn’t like to eat.

I also think he would start experimenting with ways to perfume himself. Yes, he used soap and deodorant even when he had no sense of smell (for others’ sake, truly). But now, he’d go beyond those basic items, wandering into scented shampoos, specialty aftershaves, even dabbling with cologne.

Of course, things wouldn’t be all peachy 100% of the time, as I feel like he would soon get very picky about the kinds of scents he could tolerate in your home. The kind of fabric softener you use in the laundry, the kind of hand soap you have in the bathroom, the kind of leftovers you can and absolutely cannot reheat in the microwave the next day, just to name a few.

But through it all – the good and the bad, the bold and the nuanced – Simon finds there’s one scent in particular that eclipses anything else he’s encountered: You.

And I’m not talking about the products you use in your hair or the fragrances you like to wear on a night out. I’m talking about the raw, natural, pheromonal scent of you.

It’s like a drug to Simon, that warm, pleasurable smell that clings to your skin. There’s something about it that brings him an abundance of comfort, and he finds that after he’s had a long day, he wants nothing more than to come home and bury his face in your neck as he cuddles you to sleep.

Call it what you want. Biology, psychology, psychopathy, or so on. Simon doesn’t know what it is about your scent that’s so irresistible to him, nor does he really care. All he knows is that for a long time, something was missing from his life beyond just his ability to smell. And now that he’s realized what it is, he can’t believe he ever lived without it:

His reason to breathe.

#i was tempted to get freaky towards the end but i kept it sappy because i love him 🥺#but lol why did this remind me of that spongebob episode where patrick gets a nose but after smelling something bad it rots and falls off 😭#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley fluff #simon riley fanfic #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 #call of duty #modern warfare 2

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kurishiri · 2 months ago

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02 ┊ A faux vow to the pure white bride —Nica Schwartz—

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

[COURTYARD - DAY]

As Nica had said, beyond the hallway was the courtyard.

Walking through the beautiful garden, all of a sudden he came to a halt.

Kate: Nica? Is something the matter?

Before our eyes was a small white flower——a Dutch clover.

I squatted down in front of the clover, with Nica doing the same behind me, and recalled a story of a silly memory.

Kate: When I was little, I often sought out four-leaf clovers. But with all attempts ending in vain...

K: I just stopped searching for them...

I stared dazedly at the clover, when suddenly Nica stuck his hand in the bed of clovers.

Nica: ...Here, for you.

Kate: Wh—a-a four leaf clover!?

In his hand was a small four-leaf clover.

Kate: Finding one alone is a feat in and of itself, but finding it in an instant on top of that, just how...

Nica: I’m a lucky man, so that’s how I find them just like that.

He placed the four-leaf clover on my hand, and his eyes grew more distant.

Nica: I’m pretty sure a long time ago, I found these often, and I would give them to Ring.

N: He tried looking for one himself too, since he wanted one, but he couldn’t even find a single clover. And I couldn’t bear just watching him go on like that, so I picked some for him.

N: ...That was always how it was.

Kate: Hehe, you two are quite close, aren’t you. What a good brother you are.

Nica: Well, sure, we only had each other as family, after all.

While narrowing my eyes at the good luck on my palm, I lent an ear to Nica’s story.

But, the tone of his voice seemed to contain a hint of loneliness somewhere within as well...

Nica: Ring couldn’t bear it if I wasn’t there, you know.

(Nica...?)

There was something strange about his air, so I reached a hand out to him.

But——

???: Oh my, what might you two be doing here?

My hand stopped at the voice coming from behind, and I turned around,

where there stood a man.

Nica: We were looking for four-leaf clovers in hopes tomorrow’s ceremony will go without a hitch.

When I turned to Nica, he was smiling with the air I was familiar with.

(Maybe it was my imagination.)

Looking at the clover atop the palm of my hand, the man looked over at us with a happy look.

???: Is that so? Well, it’s good that you did find one then.

???: I am sure the ceremony for you two will go swimmingly.

Kate: Um, and you are...

The man straightened his posture with a start and let out a single cough to clear his throat.

Benjamin: My name is Benjamin, and I assist Tiamo’s church pastor.

All of a sudden there was a breeze, which carried some kind of fragrance that came from Benjamin.

(Perfume, maybe?)

I wasn’t used to such a fragrance, so I turned away, while the corner of Nica’s lips quirked up as he murmured beside me.

Nica: ...So that’s how it is.

Kate: Nica, what are you saying this ti——

Kids’ voices: THERE YOU AREEE!!!

My shoulders jumped at the voices that rang so loud my ears could burst, and in the wake of momentary surprise,

the little girls came running straight for Benjamin.

Petite girl: Hey, are you still in the middle of work? I can’t wait anymore!

Braided girl: I was a good girl today, so please give me some.

The girls grabbed the hem of Benjamin’s clothes, puffing out their cheeks.

Nica: Well, aren’t you a popular one.

Benjamin: Thankfully so.

(It feels a bit like a bunch of girls who are in love with the man they look up to, perhaps.)

But even then, there seemed to be something vacant in the way they were looking at Benjamin.

Benjamin: I will excuse myself here. I look forward to tomorrow.

Taking the girls with, he left.

Kate: That person...

Nica: You felt something off too, didn’t you, Spatzi? That’s our target right there.

Nica sighed, a troubled look on his face.

Nica: You know, our big boss was speculating that he might be Cursed.

N: If he was, he wanted to make him into a part of his family, so he told me to go infiltrate and find that out.

(I did indeed sense something strange from those girls.)

Those girls, seemingly spellbound, might have been under the influence of some ability Benjamin was using.

(And if that’s the case, there’s also the possibility that he’s doing so unconsciously...)

If he was using an ability unknowingly, I would like to do something about that——

Nica: But maybe we’ve got a change of plans on our hands.

Kate: Huh?

Nica stood up, extending a hand to me.

Nica: Let’s head back. They might’ve delivered the dress now.

[BLACK]

Grabbing my wrist and pulling me up, we went back the way we came.

[CORRIDOR - DAY]

By the time we arrived in front of our room, I remembered about the bed and stiffened up.

Kate: Nica, about the bed...

Nica: Well, I’ll be, Spatzi, to think you wanted so badly to sleep together with me.

N: Alright then, I hear you loud and clear. Just don’t complain if I make any move.

Kate: You’ve got it all wrong!

Putting a hand on my head, he gave a gentle smile...

Nica: I’ll sleep on the sofa, so you take the bed.

N: Get some good rest, so you can show me how you look in that dress in your best condition.

[BLACK]

When my heart fluttered unconsciously at his mannerisms, I thought of it as something I couldn’t help.

[CHURCH]

The next day, I wore the very dress I had admired and stood by Nica’s side.

(I didn’t think I’d get to wear this dress under this circumstance, but still, I’m happy about it.)

Nica: It suits you. You look pretty, Kate.

Nica, looking cool while donning a tuxedo, gave me praise in a small voice, so I couldn’t help but become restless.

(Even so...)

I raised my head when the pastor started weaving the words “in sickness and in health.”

Tiamo’s pastor: Do you vow your love?

(Maybe I should make a vow here?)

Benjamin looked our way from beside the pastor, eyes full of expectation.

(I’m not sure when Nica’s mission will end, but it’ll probably be better to say my vows.)

Even if it was all fake, a wedding ceremony without any vows would raise suspicion, and so I opened my mouth.

But, Nica beat me to the chase——

Nica: No, I do not.

Kate: Wha...?

Surprised, I looked beside me to see a serious expression on his face that I had never seen before.

Nica: I don’t vow any love, even if it’s for a fake wedding.

N: When it comes to things you can vow and whatnot, there’s not a single thing you can gain out of it anyhow.

Glaring at Benjamin, he said...

Nica: There’s not an ounce of truth in this place. What there is here is nothing but what makes humans repulsive.

N: After all, it’s you guys who go breaking vows and destroying that sought after happiness.

to be continued...

masterlist 🍒 ┊ ko-fi ☕️ ┊ comms 🤍

prev. ⋮ prem. ⋮ bit.

#🍀#ikemen villains #ikevil #イケメンヴィラン #ikevil nica #ikevil nica schwartz #nica schwartz #ikemen villains nica #cybird ikemen series #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #ikemen series #otome game #otome #ikevil translation #ikevil translations #d: cafekitsune

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years ago

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Three for One 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As a customer service associate, you're used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what's on the shelf.

Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

Note: Right, this was supposed to be a drabble series but it morphed and not I'm fucked.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

It's the most special time of year! Mistletoe, jingle bells, and holiday cheer! Oh, and hot chocolate. Lots of that.

You hide your thermos under the desk and grab the crystal bottle again, giving a test spritz to the air. Your job isn't very complicated. All you do is say hi and chat about the perfume. Your manager says the job is selling but you don't like to see it that way.

You smile at a family of five as they veer towards the toy section. You don't think the six year old would be into an eau de parfum. It's understandable.

While you spend your hours wandering around expensive makeups and scents, you're filled with a certain hint of longing. For what you're paid to push the merchandise, you can't afford any of it yourself. Well, you've never been very materialistic.

You spin around and see a gentlemen approaching, though he doesn't seem to see you. He looks past you, almost through you. You stop in place and put on your best smile, fixing the red band around your head.

"Hello, sir, would you like to try some Gucci?" You offer and spray the nozzle at him.

He skids to a stop and recoils as if he's been slapped. He holds out his arm as he looks down at his coat, little droplets seeping into the fabric. He takes a whiff, his short mustache wiggling under his nose, and he scoffs as he tries to shake off the cologne.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He snips.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to scare you."

"You just go around spray people with that horseshit?"

"Well, sir, with respect, I don't like that sort of language.

"And I don't like being drenched in dog piss," he blusters, "point me to the goddamn trimmers."

"Um, what kind? Nail trimmers? Pet trimmers? Garden trimmers?"

"What the fuck do you think?" He points to his own face.

You hold your smile. There's always that one customer who's having a bad day. Whatever's got him so upset must be worse than dealing with him.

"Personal care," you point to the far corner, "right over there, sir."

"Ugh," he stomps and storms off.

"I hope your day gets better," you call after him, "oh, did you want a store coupon--"

He ignores you as he waves you off over his shoulder. You watch him turn towards men's grooming and you shrug, rocking slightly. You try not to let them get to you. As jolly as you find this time of year, a lot of people don't feel the same.

You shrug off the encounter. You still have a few hours ahead of you and it's starting to bustle with customers. You help a couple find the home wares while keeping the boundary of cosmetics firm. Lucille, the manager, doesn't like you leaving your zone.

You approach a woman looking at the Prada selection and get her checked out with a new fragrance, specially gift-wrapped by yours truly. She leaves happy, a small victory for the day. You celebrate but not too much.

You come around the counter just as you see that man strutting back up. He has an item in his hand and ignores you as he passes. Still you smile at him.

"Annoying," he mutters under his breath.

"Need help finding anything else, sir?" You ask his heels.

He stops and you see the way his spine stiffens. Oh no, you shouldn't have said anything. He slowly turns to face you.

"You can shut up," he marches up to you and grabs the bottle from your hands, "shut." He sprays you in the face, "up." He squirts you several more times before shoving the vial against your chest, "stupid little girl."

You take the bottle, blinking as you use your cuff to wipe the perfume away from your eyes. He continues on his path as you stand dumbfounded, drenched in Gucci cologne. It's hard to breathe through the heavy scent and you can't help but cough.

What a jerk. Just because he's having a bad day, doesn't mean everyone needs to.

Slowly you grow accustomed to the smell of yourself. It’s not too unusual. You go nose blind about halfway through your shift once you spray a few too many samples. You keep your distance from customers, offering them a spritz but trying not to crowd them with the vapors of cologne rippling off of you.

You yawn as the afterwork rush floods in and you make another round, smiling at Sofia as she peeks over at you. She’s with another customer at the counter, ringing them up as she gabs. You spin at the display at the center of the crossway that runs through the beauty department and stagger back before another can run you over.

You apologise to the tall man as he skids to a stop on his soles. You can tell he’s in a hurry by the way he grips his briefcase and squares his jaw. He wears a long dark wool coat as flecks of snow melt into his thick beard.

“Oh, sorry, I er, wasn’t–” He clears his throat, collecting himself, “I… didn’t see you.”

“That’s okay, sir,” you assure him, “would you like to try the new scent?”

You hold up the onyx bottle but don’t spray him. You don’t need another dousing. He looks at the silver letters on the side then at you. The furrow in his brow lightens as his blue eyes swim.

“No thanks, but er, you think you could help me find something?”

“Of course,” you chime and lower the bottle, “are you looking for a gift for someone special?”

He nods, “my mother-in-law is on her way into town, I need a present. Maybe perfume?”

His tone is tinted with frustration as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. He lets out a long sigh. He’s one of those shoppers; the last minute scrambler. You grasp the vial in one hand and tug at the front of your thick red sweater, you’re starting to get a bit toasty in the crowded store.

“How old is she?” You ask.

“Um,” he clamps his lips together and thinks, “hmmm, probably seventy-something? I’m sorry, I guess I should know that.”

“That’s okay, I… I would suggest some Liz Taylor,” you turn on your heel and wave him after you as you head off, “it’s a classic. Not so much a me scent but the older crowd likes it. Oh, and it’s on special so your wallet won’t hate it, either.”

You stop by the Diamonds display as you face him again. He follows at a pace and stops before the shelf, perusing the gold caps and crystal caps. He considers the rack in deep thought.

“Here,” you set down your bottle on a nearby table of seasonal decorations and take one from the display. You slip out a strip of cardstock and spray it with the sampler, “this one is gardenia. That was her favourite scent. It’s probably the least pungent.”

You offer him the sample and he eyes it. He slowly bends and sniffs the end of the paper. He wiggles his nose. It makes you sneeze too. As much as you’re a fan of the classic actress, her scents are dated.

“Smells like her,” he grumbles under his breath, “sure, I’ll take that.”

“Great,” you declare and trade the sampler for a boxed bottle, then retrieve your disposed Gucci vial, “would you like me to check you out, sir?”

“Is it faster?”

“I can be fast,” you promise him, “this way.”

You go around the sparkling counters and he meets you across the till. You type in your log in, taking several tries to get your passcode right. The man places his briefcase on the counter,a hand resting on the edge.

“You know a lot about this stuff?” He prompts.

“Yeah, I guess,” you smile as you scan the perfume and tap the special offer on the screen, “kinda part of the job.”

“Hmm” he hums again, in that thoughtful manner. You look at him but he’s not looking at your face, “that’s a nice sweater.”

You look down at the red wool speckled with pearls. It’s new and one of your favourites already. You can’t help a little wiggle of your shoulders, “thanks!”

“Very… cheerful,” he muses as he takes out his wallet, “wish I could say the same of what awaits me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, it’s that time of year, I guess,” you push the debit machine towards him and he taps his credit card, “I’m sure your mother-in-law will love the perfume.” The transaction approves and the receipt prompts, “would you like an email?”

“Nah, that’s fine,” he tucks his credit card away.

“Would you like it gift-wrapped?” You offer, “it’s free?”

He hovers his hand over his briefcase as he considers it. His eyes meet yours and his cheek dimples, “alright, yeah, that’s… that’s perfect. Thank you.”

“No problem,” you beam back at him, “let me just get some tissue paper…”

You murmur to yourself as you grab some gold tissue paper and a white gift bag with a Christmas tree embossed into the side. You carefully line up the small box on the paper and begin your intensive work. You're a master wrapper, you used to work at the wrapping station in the mall.

“What about you?” He asks before the silence can stretch too far, “you seeing family for the holidays? When you’re not working?”

“Um,” you smile as you look up, “I’m just hanging out with my dog. I bought him a bone.”

“A dog,” he nods, “your family live out of town?”

Usually, you ask the questions. It’s easier that way. It deflects the attention from you. It’s why you like the job; you can hear all about others and not have to think about yourself.

“Yeah, something like that,” you slip the wrapped box into the bag and fluff the tissue paper.

“Eh!” The loud exclamation makes you jump as the man merely turns his head, a tic in his jaw. His eyes narrow as another customer approaches, strutting with hands in his jacket pocket as he calls out, “Barber, what the hell?”

Your customer shifts towards the man, heels squeaking on the floor, “Hugh.”

“Don’t Hugh me, asshole,” the other man retorts, “you said you were busy? What’s the matter, you lose too much money last time?”

“Suzette is in town. Family dinner,” the man, Barber, drones dully.

“Ah, ditched for the old crone, I get it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, wouldn’t you know it, poker night was canceled, something about not enough seats,” the man counters sharply.

“Next week,” the first man growls.

“Hey, you,” the man in the russet coat snaps his fingers in your direction, “you got some of that Acqua di Gio. That dumb girl over there said you’re sold out.”

Your brows pop up and you swallow tightly. He’s another type. The arrogant demander. He doesn’t hear no. He’ll ask everyone the same question in hope of getting a different answer.

“We are out of stock, sir, but I could order it in for you,” you suggest.

“Order in? I can just go on Amazon, thanks for nothing,” he chops his hand at you dismissively.

“Hey,” the other man nudges his chest, “be nice. She’s working.”

“What? I’m here to spend money and they got shit all–”

“It’s December,” the other man reproaches before he turns back to you, “sorry, my friend is a jerk.” He accepts the gift bag as you hold it out, “thank you. You saved me.”

“No problem, but er, I was gonna say,” you turn to the other man, “sir, I have some samples of the Armani. I could give you those while you wait for the order.”

“Samples?” He echoes, “how many?”

“Let me have a look,” you back up and go to the drawer at the back of the checkout.

“I gotta get going, miss,” the first man waves his hand as you peek over your shoulder, “have a happy holiday.”

“You too,” you chirp back and find the last few tubes of Armani. You claim them and prance back to meet the new customer at the counter, “I have five.” You lay out your wares, “if I order in a bottle it’ll be in just before Christmas.”

“Two weeks?” He puffs.

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s the earliest I can do. It’s the last day I can guarantee delivery before Christmas.”

“Talk, talk, talk, order it,” he snaps.

“Right, let me just…” you open the shop and search up the scent. You add it to the cart and proceed. “Alright, got that, did you want it shipped for pick up here or to your address.”

“Here, they can never fucking find my house,” he sniffs.

“Great, so when it arrives, we’ll give you a call. You’ll also get an email to confirm.”

“What’s going on here?” He points at you suddenly. You look down again at your sweater but don’t see anything amiss. You flinch as he reaches to pinch one of the pearls, “what is this?”

“Oh, I… my sweater,” you raise your head, swallowing down the insult. It’s cute!

“Huh, Walmart clearance, huh,” he scoffs, “alright, how much are you robbing me for?”

He reaches into his coat as you hit total. You read out the final amount but he doesn’t pull out a card; he hands you cash. You count the bills, twice over, then give him his change. He looms with impatient huffs.

“Here’s your receipt,” you hand him the strip of paper. “Have a good day, sir.”

“Mmm,” he pokes his tongue into his cheek as he shoves the receipt into his pocket, “actually, while I’m here, I’d like a new sweater. You can help me and I’ll show you what real quality is.”

You almost laugh. Not spitefully, it’s just a bit silly. He’s competing with you, a perfume pusher.

“Well, sir, I can point you towards men’s fashion but I’m not able to leave this department, I’m sorry,” you give a sheepish smile.

“Oh no, good girl wouldn’t want to break the rules,” he rolls his eyes, “goody goody and her precious little smile.” He hooks his thumbs in his pockets, “my shit better be in by Christmas.”

He twists and strides away. You watch him go but not for long as you’re quickly distracted by a customer looking at the Britney Spears collection. Those are easy sellers.

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thatsmooji · 5 months ago

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it’ll always be you.

— connie springer x reader

❝ The Ship of Theseus: The ship of Theseus set sail from a port, and over the course of its journey, every piece of wood and every crew member was replaced. By the time it reaches its destination, is it still the same ship? ❞

oneshot: slow morning chats, slice of life, fluff, hurt/comfort (not really much hurt), self care, existentialism (just a smidge), connie reflects on his sense of self, nonspecific reader (reader is called beautiful once), semi-proofread, ooc

notes: omg my first oneshot on tumblr!! i've never been confident writing x reader fics, but right now i have a desperate need to write out situations based on myself, and this is the perfect way to do that. i hope you all enjoy ♡ (also, i desperately need to get a new laptop. i HATE writing on my phone, but i refuse to sit at my desktop just for html mode)

“i’ve got you. it’s alright.”

connie nodded, slowly cracking open one eye to watch as you began carefully clipping his fingernails. he had always taken care of himself, even though the end result was often shabby at best.

you were gentle though, lightly maneuvering his digits as you clipped each nail. in fact, you had been beyond patient with him the entire day.

connie has experienced slumps before, but never one this severe. he couldn't even bring himself to get out of bed this morning; letting himself be consumed by the weight of the world, even though his world was calling for him from the kitchen. as soon as you returned to the bedroom to see what was taking your boyfriend so long, you immediately knew something was up.

but after a long hug, much reassurance, and a few short kisses, you found yourself here. the entire morning was spent taking care of your love: soaking in the bath, washing and moisturizing his hair, lightly dousing yourselves in comforting fragrances (sweet thing wanted to wear one of your perfumes for the day), eating light meals, and now, taking care of his nails.

during all of this, connie didn't speak much. he wasn't upset. he just didn't feel the need to fill the tranquil space with his usual loud demeanor. he was here with you, and both of you were okay with that. even so, he still wondered if this was really alright.

as of lately, connie had become quieter…gentler. it started around just you. you were a talker, of course. but your speech was always smooth and inviting. you hardly ever raised your voice, and connie slowly found him speaking lower to match you. more so, his friends have started to point out his gradually changing personality. none of them said it was a bad thing, of course. onyankopon just said that he was starting to mellow out, and enjoy life at a more languid pace; nothing wrong with that. eren would jokingly commend connie on finally deciding to settle down.

still, connie wondered if something was wrong. he was changing, and that had never happened before. he'll always be himself though, right?

he remembered you mentioning something similar to this once. a “paradox,” you called it, named The Ship of Theseus. he remembered answering the question with a no, of course its a different ship. no part of it was the same. but now, he wondered if that was really correct? how many parts of him could change before he was no longer…connie?

“something on your mind, baby?”

connie looked down at you. you were so beautiful, and always attentive to his needs. everything about you was an answer to a prayer, and not once has he ever taken your love for granted.

“do you think i'm different? like, have i changed?” connie asked, trying his best not to fidget as your swiped a layer of clear polish on his ring finger. there was no ring there, and every day he wanted to change that. for you and for him.

“hmm…sure you have,” you stated, glancing up as connie sucked in a breath at your response. “but not for the worst. you're still my connie.”

“but what if i change more. what if i change so much of myself that you won't recognize me?”

you paused your actions for a moment, fully looking up at your boyfriend. his jaw was locked tightly, and his eyes were squinted in uncertainty. still, he was as handsome as ever. you never thought once to judge him for his concerns. this one even peaked your interest.

“that won't happpen,” you confirmed, taking his hand that had already dried in yours. “no matter what you do, or what you look like, you will always be connie springer.”

connie tightened his grasp on your hand, looking out towards the window of your bedroom. he was so lucky to have you. you were perfect for him, and there was no hesitance in saying that to anyone.

“i think i want to dye my hair.”

“of course, love,” you nodded, picking up your nail polish to finish painting his nails.

#— mooji writes! 🥟#aot x reader #attack on titan #aot connie #connie springer #x reader #connie x reader #connie x black reader #aot imagines #connie springer x reader

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letterful · 1 year ago

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Jean Madar, chairman and CEO of InterParfums Inc, recently told Bloomberg that fragrance is part of a person’s “core identity”. And while cosmetic companies can face criticism for conflating external products with existential outcomes [...] perfume conveniently sidesteps the problems of the flesh. It’s not trying to change how you look, but how you feel, and, for the span of a spritz at least, it does. In the age of wellness-as-beauty and neurocosmetics, the science of scent is marketing gold.

[...] I wonder if what we’re after here is not a sense of self but a (related) sense of life.

I say “we” because – despite my documented skepticism of beauty brands – I, too, am powerless against a good perfume ad.

Last month, casually depressed and subconsciously seeking comfort and some sort of release, I spent $240 on a scent called Tears by Régime de Fleurs. “What a luxury to weep,” the website read. It described the perfume as “emotion in liquid form, the romance and the sadness”. It promised “nostalgia” too, with notes of lilac to remind me of my grandmother’s front yard and frankincense to call up childhood Sundays spent in incense-blessed church pews. I suppose I wanted Tears to take me back to a time when someone who loved me baked me cookies every week, when I believed in God and goodness, and life stretched ahead of me in an endless expanse of hope and potential.

Of course, it didn’t do that. It smelled fine. I felt something, for a second. But I was still me, and I was still mostly numb.

I thought of that perfume the other day while reading the preface to Henry James’s 1902 novel The Wings of the Dove. James summarized it as the story “of a young person conscious of a great capacity for life” – someone “passionately desiring” to “achieve, however briefly and brokenly, the sense of having lived”.

Something clicked: how to explain Tears if not a brief and broken sense of having cried?

#as someone who is decidedly Not Immune to whatever the Big Fragrance is peddling - the article /did/ provide me with some food for thought #despite not being a particularly groundbreaking take on the industry and its marketing tactics.#but then again: what newsworthy (...essayworthy? substackworthy?) thing can even be said about it at this point?#sheer novelty (especially re: the choice of topic) is not the /only/ criterion by which popular cultural criticism should be judged #is what i'm saying (that and i did appreciate the wings of the dove mention).

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2toplibrary · 5 months ago

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Todoroki and Bakugou perfumes by Primaniacs

Explanation of the scents and meaning

Todoroki Shouto

It is a cold flame that weaves a connection that has been let go. Herbal spicy notes that harmonize opposite textures.

A sharp herbal scent reminiscent of a frozen ice wall. The coldness and the heat of the spices that overlap bring about a crystallization of the hatred that resides within, or a hidden trump card of fire to reach even greater heights. The fire and ice that shake off the entangled blood blend with . A fragrance that follows the path and pursues the person you want to be.destinyFateMeltingand TraceTado

TOP:Lime, Clary Sage, Eucalyptus

MIDDLE:Anise, cinnamon, nutmeg

LAST:Olibanum, Benzoin, Sandalwood, Musk

[Top note] It starts with a cool, sharp herbal scent. The cold scent is reminiscent of one of his "quirks," the semi-cold, and gives the impression of Todoroki's power, creating a giant ice cube and overwhelming everyone in the room. It even reminds us of his cold eyes, as he vowed not to use heat in battle , won the sports festival without using heat, and aims to completely negate Endeavor. heatLeft

[Middle note] Spices such as anise, cinnamon, and nutmeg spread out. The image of a warmth slowly rising from the inside is reminiscent of Todoroki Shoto, who has begun to use his other "quirk" that he had been keeping sealed away for so long after fighting Midoriya Izuku. Inspired by Midoriya Izuku, he remembers that he too had aspired to be a hero before he rejected Endeavor, and because of his own experience, he tells Iida Tenya, who is obsessed with revenge, "Watch yourself, you're a hero!" You can feel the change in his state of mind.

[Last note] Olibanum with a comfortable warmth drifts leisurely. The image is of a mixture of half-cold and half-burnt, spreading a warmth like human skin. As Izuku Midoriya said, "It's like a cold flame," it feels like he has accepted both "quirks" and completed them as his own "quirk." In addition, the scent conveys how Todoroki was able to face his family because he spent time with his friends at U.A., reuniting with his mother and trying to stop the thief even if it was unwanted, in order to save them. CremationToya

[Overall scent impression] Todoroki's fragrance has a freezing cold scent at first, but as time passes, it blends with the heat of spices and eventually spreads a pleasant scent. At first, Todoroki only focused on completely denying Endeavor, but as he spends time with his friends, he gradually comes to terms with the changes that have arisen within himself and gets closer to the person he wants to be. Experience the scent as it moves you forward.

Bakugou Katsuki

Smoky spicy notes that go beyond the distant ideal and move straight ahead

The clove hidden deep within the heavy cassia bursts like a stored detonator, creating an explosive sensation. The explosive flames that instantly take over the place narrow your field of vision and cover up the true feelings you have unconsciously held. But then the cedarwood peeks through the gaps in the smoke, bringing a bright impression as if shaking off the conflict. As your field of vision gradually becomes clearer, you can see only one thing: victory . This fragrance will touch your heart with its nobility, as you look forward with unwavering conviction. smokeSmoke SalvationPlus

TOP:Bergamot, Cassia, Eucalyptus, Clove

MIDDLE:Jasmine, Smoky Note

LAST:Cedarwood, Sandalwood, Patchouly, Moss

[Top note] Hot cassia and clove rise vigorously. The powerful scent is reminiscent of the "personality" of his explosions, and you can imagine the explosive power being at its maximum. The scent also gives the impression of rising up, so it seems to convey his firm confidence and conviction when he boasts that he will be the No. 1 hero.

[Middle note] A smoky note with a muffled texture spreads. It is a scent reminiscent of the widespread smoke that rises after a powerful explosion. In addition, the smoke changes to an opaque texture that covers the view, and you can feel the agony of the way he has been harboring resentment in his heart, such as how he has been chasing after Izuku Midoriya, who was always behind him, and how he has been troubled by the fact that he ended All Might, while Izuku Midoriya has been recognized by All Might and is getting stronger.

[Last note] The natural scent of moss gradually changes from the heavy and stimulating atmosphere of the middle notes to a calming atmosphere. The refreshing cedarwood adds a slightly brighter scent. Bakugo Katsuki confesses everything he's been holding inside to Izuku Midoriya and apologizes, saying, "I'm sorry for everything." Afterwards, he declares that he will win for everyone, including Izuku Midoriya, the citizens, and the townspeople, and you can feel his endlessly straightforward conviction. SalvationPlus

[Overall scent impression] Bakugo Katsuki's fragrance is characterized by the force and firepower of the explosions he fires from his palms. At the same time, as the scent changes over time, you can also feel his heroic image of "I can win." Feel the scent as he pushes forward with his unwavering belief that he will surpass All Might, who is also his ideal, as he is confident and rough due to his genius abilities. Salvation

#todobaku #merch #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #tdbk #bktd #scent descriptions #special nod to the #a/b/o #fans among you

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xsapphirescrollsx · 9 months ago

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Holiday Interlude #2

Written: Dec 7 2020

Pairing: Clark Kent x Black Reader

Words: 3.4k

Warnings: 18+, bit-o-fluff, sprinkle of angst, flash of gray Clark Kent, smut, implied stalking, dark implications at the end. Proceed with caution!

A/N: Thank you @titty-teetee for beta’ing this fic and for your encouragement :*).

Why did you wear these shoes?

Under the rumble of multiple conversations going on around you the low melodic hum of Baby Please Come Home played throughout the bar. Balling up one of your fists into your lap, hoping to disappear into the back of your stool seat, you pressed harder against it and held your phone tighter in the other. People roared with laughter occasionally. Others tried to sing in time, while every once in a while a random person would step to your side, order a drink, and leave.

You did your best to wiggle tightly bound toes within heels that hadn’t seen the light of day in more than a year. Oh well, it was the least of your worries. You were also overly dressed for a bar packed with hoodie and jean wearing locals. You sat on the stool at the bar, checkered pin skirt sucking every bit of you into a smooth shape. You should have left your jacket on. The navy blue long-sleeved top hardly helped with the chill crawling up your back. Off the shoulder was sexy, but what did it matter now that your date had not shown up.

Instead, you stuck out, became a beacon, a cautionary tale perhaps of meeting a stranger and being left stranded.

You weren’t even from around here. Metropolis grated against your country-living hospitalities. Well, small town-lack of 24 hours shops, hospitalities. Everything had a smell, the street perfumed with the fragrance of both smog and food left you sick. And the noise, you had been here for two days and had yet to have an uninterrupted night sleep.

A sharp bang came from behind you. The sound was low, muffled, like a car backfiring perhaps. You swiveled around, a pair of men were beating the shit out of each other, the smaller one had the larger on the top of the table, pounding the man’s face. You were about to grab for your coat when another came between the two.

You glanced at your phone. A nervous habit really and the soul nuisance of your night as your date had never answered your text.

The man calmed the scene and as the crowd dispersed, the noise leveled out back to the low pitch of voices, you turned back toward the bar. The man behind the counter refilled your glass of whiskey, a subtle kind smile, and left you alone once again.

“Crazy night huh?” said a man’s voice.

You peered over your glass to the man now standing at your right. The same guy from a few moments before who had broken the fight up. A city dweller from the looks of him. Blue flannel over a simple gray shirt, jeans with the curled ends of dark brown hair poking out around the edge of his cap. He pushed up the black-rimmed glasses back to the bridge of his nose. He smiled kindly.

He put his elbow on the bar, hooked a thumb back toward the area of the previous scene.

“The holidays seem to bring it out in people.”

You placed the glass back down, smiled back at him in return, and slightly nodded. He grinned back once again through the scruff of patchy hair encircling his mouth. His eyes glanced over your body for a second, but it was long enough for you to take in him assessing you as well.

“For a bar like this, you stand out.”

You refrained from rolling your eyes and offered another nod while pulling hard on the tumbler of whiskey.

“--No, no-” he started to stutter, cleared his throat while adjusting the brim of his cap a little higher above his eyes. “You look great. I just meant, for here,” he peered into the room just beyond you.

You couldn’t help the crooked grin or the blaze humming across your skin.

“I was supposed to meet someone here.” you swallowed again, letting the burn linger a bit in the back of your throat before you spoke again. “They had other plans I guess.”

Suddenly he jutted out a thick hand extending it in front of you. “Well I’m Clark Kent, it’s nice to meet you,” he said.

The music switched up to a more upbeat Jingle Bell swing as you reached for his hand. You offered up your name, squeezed tight as you shook it back, with a smile.

“You want to get out of here?” His eyes landed back on the glass in your hand. “Once your drink is done? There’s a quick place down the block, great food.”

You studied him for a moment. Considering you were new in town, didn’t know your way around in this giant moving citing that seemingly never slept - but he appeared kind enough.

More than that, hopefully, it wasn’t the booze talking, he was handsome and easy to talk to.

“Sure?” you started to laugh. “What could happen while being with a complete stranger?”

You could tell he didn’t know how to answer your sarcastic quip. Clark stood up straight, aligned his shoulders tight, tilted his chin up a bit higher.

Unfurling his size before your eyes, he stood tall next to you. “Most friends start as strangers, right?” Clark grinned back at you, relaxed his shoulders a bit, and took a small step away to allow you to slide from the barstool.

“So let’s get some food.”

“Okay, okay. Yes, I’ll go. I hope it’s good.”

Slightly buzzed off the three drinks, Clark walked behind you out of the bar and onto the icy sidewalk. At once a group of giggling, bubbling with what the night had to offer, a group of people stormed right in front of you, pushing you out of the way. A couple of hands held your hips, drawing you further away from them, proactively he guided you on the outskirts of the group and further away from the bar.

“Busy for a Thursday!” said Clark from behind you. His hand stayed on your lower back as he came around. “Must be the holidays.”

Clark seemed to realize he was still touching you when his hand dropped and jabbed into his front pant pockets.

“It’s just down here,” He pointed with the other. And true to his word, a small line with a few people deep was close.

“What kind of food?” you asked while trying to retain some of the warmth his hand had left under your jacket.

“A bit of everything I think.” He glanced down at you from under his cap. You tried not to stare, but damn. Out on the street, with the gentle glow of the pale street lights, you could see his face clearer. “But I like the tacos,” he added and lifted his eyes back in the direction of the restaurant.

The line moved fast, you ordered what he ordered; two soft tacos with spicy condiments. Against your unflinching comments, Clark paid for yours along with his. And when the pleased woman behind the counter handed him the heavy bag Clark asked something you weren’t sure how to answer.

“Do you want to go back to my place?”

The two of you walked a few steps, once again you were considering. You were the type of person who went with the instinct, and your gut told you he was okay. But then again, monsters come in all shapes and sizes. Clark smiled as he turned to you with the bag in hand.

He shrugged as he continued to gaze back at you. “--Sorry that was forward. I just wanted to offer you a warm place to eat these.”

Honestly, you had thought he was just being nice. That he saw a pathetic woman, dressed up, waiting for a date that would never happen and offered a kind hand. But you had witnessed what he had done in the bar by breaking up a fight before. Certainly, that went further to color in the shades of his character? Also, there was no way this man wanted anything more than to have a meal and a friendly conversation. Right?

You nodded quickly and skipped the smile. And you followed Clark only another block before you were following him up the steps of his apartment building and through its door. He mumbled on about how the neighbors are quiet, though the one four doors down were loud but only on Sundays. Your heart was beating fast, you had never done anything like this before. So you tried to listen to his words, search for some grounding in the moment at hand.

Clark appeared to pick up on your nerves. He turned back to you once off the elevator to his floor, he grabbed your hand and led you down the long brick covered hall. “Did you come here for work?” he asked.

His voice shook you back to his warm hand within yours. “Um- yes. I could have completed it online but I like the feel of seeing the works in person. The museum has so many artifacts, I couldn’t pass it up.”

“That’s what you do? Like some sort of cataloging?” Clark released your hand, dug in his pocket for the key as he stared at you curiously.

“Sort of. Yes, it’s cataloging, but also returning them to their rightful homes. This particular one arrived here, according to the security footage by a mysterious visitor. Nobody has been able to figure out who he is. But I secretly think it might have been him, you know, Superman.”

You pressed your small clutch closer to your chest as you stared at the doorknob. “So many of them were taken under horrible historical circumstances. In some cases, our eyes will never see them again once they are gone from the museum. A bit ghoulish I guess. But they did offer me a new position here, I’m not sure I’ll take it.”

Clark popped open the door, “‘Sounds interesting though. Like something you’re very passionate about. I’ve been having trouble finding that for me. I work at the Daily Planet, it can be boring. ” he said.

He let you walk in first. The same color of brick as the hallway, lined the wall to the windows, where it angled right creating the basic square shape. A Christmas tree stood near the couch and middle window, it was bare, darkened in shadow. But the kitchen light was on, casting light into the living room as you stepped in. A few shelves behind the grey couch were stuffed full of books stacked in whatever fashion he saw fit. It felt cozy overall.

“Home sweet home,” he chimed in as he shut the door behind you.

Clark walked around you toward the kitchen island, where he sat the bag on the other side of the sink. He glanced back at you, “It’s not much-”

“No, I like it,” you said and joined him at the counter.

You shed the jacket, placed it on the back of the chair. “Wow.”

“Yeah, these tacos smell great!” you said as Clark paused where he stood. And when you glanced back at him he was staring at you and not the food.

“What?”

Clark rubbed his chin while he appeared to be considering you. “I thought you were beau-- I mean, wow you’re beautiful.”

You tried to maintain eye contact but opted out to stare back at the food. Heat rose from your chest, crept over your shoulders and down your back, the alcohol was wearing off and this feeling was completely your own. Clark shuffled off the unbuttoned flannel, his cap along with it, and ran his fingers through dark loose curls.

A steady silence followed while he went back to unwrapping the food. “How about another drink?” you asked. “Do you have anything brown?”

“Uh,” Clark froze for a second in thought and looked over deeper into the kitchen. In the shelves, near the stove, a single bottle stood. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

He walked around you, retrieved two glasses, the bottle, and returned to stand next to you. He poured you three fingers worth about that much for himself and raised his glass.

“To new friends.”

You clinked the glass against his with a nod, swirled the liquid within, and then took a big drink. And three more glasses later you were more than happy to flirt. Well, in your own way with your sarcastic comments about the city, his eyes the color of a summer sky, how the smog was thickest in the mornings, how big his arms were under that long sleeve shirt...oh and how everybody always seemed to ignore each other, ah the city.

With every word, you grew closer to him, or did he move in? Behind the blur of booze, it didn’t really matter which. Clark leaned in toward your titled lips and kissed you anyway. You stared back at him shocked and unable to look away as he started to pull his shirt over his head. Ripples of muscles across his chest and down to his waist momentarily gave you pause. Wispy bundles and swirls of thick black hair coated his skin adding to the dips of hard flesh.

Your lower lip hung open, “Oh my god…” you whispered.

Clark wondered back to you, his hands clasped around your forearms, then moved further up before resting on the sides of your face.

“I--thought you were just being kind to me.” you slurred it out as your hands soon become unable to not touch his chest. “That you saw some dolled up girl and felt sorry for her.”

Clark’s smile slackened, “No, I thought you were beautiful from the second you walked in. I wanted to talk to you. But I waited, and when no one showed up --” he half grinned again. “I took a chance.”

“Going out for food was a bonus--getting you back here-” Clark kissed you again, pulled you back with him as he walked.

“You--are you sure?” Clark doesn’t stop the cascade of kisses from your jaw, to your neck, pecking your collarbone as his hands wandered down to your ass. He hummed a deep uh-huh and began to unzip the back of your skirt.

“It’s just--” you tried to speak again but his lips landed back on yours. In the tussle of his hands shimming your skirt down, you let out a giggle. “You look like a god.”

Clark grabbed your hand, tilted his head back, and looked at you. “You don’t have anything to worry about. Not with me.” he narrowed his eyes before he smiled. “Now come here.”

He got you naked and back first on his bed, though you still tried to hide with a well-placed hand here and there. But all thoughts of insecurity flew out the door as Clark pulled down his boxers. What sprung out had you coughing with frantic drunk giggles.

“I’ve--” you started to speak and looked into his eyes. “I’ve never seen one bigger than that.” and your eyes dipped back down between your legs at his long, thick, uncut, cock.

Clark’s large body bends at the waist as he crawls further up to you. He said nothing but offered a warm smile as he settled between your hips. The muscles of his arms looked wholly larger, as he laid propped up on the palms of his hands. The tip of him swept down your slit causing you to buck your hips.

“Sensitive?” he whispered and angled his hips again - this time the soft, warm end pressed into you. “And wet.”

You settled in, spreading your legs wider, lifting your feet off the bed, and curled them near his ribs. He pushed in further, you were soaked as he inched in more. Sinking into you, the action takes him over, the warmth, the tightness has him falling on top of you. Clark raked his teeth up the column of your neck to your mouth. He kissed you hard, sucked in your bottom lip as he slid in with a powerful stroke.

He wasn’t the quiet man that you expected him to be. Far from the unnamed person, you laid eyes on a few hours ago, Clark grabbed your wrists, wrapped his hands tight around them, and crossed them behind your head. You whimpered out his name as your head lulled desperately left and right. You arched your back the moment the roughness of his coarse hair grinds across your clit.

Your murmurs whine out in feathered aching. He could feel clutching within to the point angled his hips to prod deeper and to quicken the pace. Eye to eye, he watches you fall apart all at once. The sensation hit fast that you weren’t sure you were even almost there until it happened. But you did, and you tried to grab for him. But his grip tightened around your wrists, he huddled in close brushing his chest against your body as his hips filled you as deep as he wanted.

Despite the hushed groans, the long, languid roll of his hips, he didn’t last long either. Soon after Clark sputtered to an end with his mouth on yours. “Sorry-” embarrassed he moved his head down the side of your cheek so as not to look in your eyes.

“It’s--been more than a while,” he said quietly, panting.

Clark slumped to your side, your leg still underneath his waist. “Me too…” you huffed out, still transfixed on the last few moments. “Six years and counting. Well, not anymore,” you chuckled.

You laid there for a few more minutes with Clark slowly stroking the skin of your inner thigh. Not knowing what came next you did like the movies, or as your friends had done. You sat up, tugged your leg from under him, and looked around the room for your clothes.

“You’re leaving?” Clark propped his head in his hand and stared up at you.

You pulled at the blanket near in an attempt to clumsily cover your body. You shrugged, not meeting his eyes, “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to stay?”

Clark lunged forward, held you around your shoulders, and body and pulled you back down into the bed at his side.

“Leave?” Clark held you close in his arms. “Do you know how hard it was to get that artifact to the museum? I had to track down a dozen shitty guys to get something that I knew would get your attention.”

Dizzy still with the liquor in your veins you blinked a few times and hoped what you were hearing was just an illusion.

“Seems like a lot--but you’re worth it.” He sounded so sure and nuzzled his nose in near your ear.

“What? Wait,” you tried to speak but Clark squeezed a little harder and started to peck your neck with soft kisses.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

This time the panic uncoiled from your belly as you pushed back against him. “Who are you?”

Clark’s hold was like steel as he wrapped his arm under you. With the other, he removed his glasses. Under the dim light pouring into the room from the kitchen, you stared back at him. The eyes, the nose, and now that you couldn’t get an inch from him it all made sense.

“Fuck..”

Clark sat up and so did you. He dragged you over his leg and sat you in between his as he flung the glasses to the other side of the bed.

“It’s not easy meeting the love of your life.” Unrestrained and a bit desperate, Clark held your arms and forced your face in his direction.

“You’re going to take it right? The position? Don’t disappoint me, baby.”

He crushed his lips onto yours, dipped his tongue in a bit before he pulled back. “Say yes,” he muttered as his hands coasted down your neck and over your bare shoulders.

Superman, Kal-El stared back at you waiting for an answer. It was most definitely a lie, “Yes.”

Clark’s lips split into a delirious grin. “Good, then we’ll look for a bigger apartment tomorrow.”

You frowned and held the side of your head as the familiar thump-thump of a headache started to form.

“Well maybe not tomorrow.” he laughed slightly as he continued to speak, “It’s Christmas Eve. I think the two of us can spend it getting to know each other-” one of his hands slid over to your breasts.

“--a little better…” Clark leaned in toward you, thick fingers pulled your chin up so that your lips hovered over his.

“It’ll be the best Christmas ever.” he smoothly said.

#dark!Clark Kent #Clark Kent #Black Female Reader x dark!Clark Kent #reader x Clark kent #Black reader

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 years ago

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Pairing: Elrond x Fem. Reader (second person POV)

Themes: Soft | Smut

Warnings: Kissing | Penetrative sex | Public sex | Sex in an unusual location | Cream pie

Word count: 1.7k words

Summary: Elrond goes in search of his companion, and is greeted with a ball of snow instead.

Rating: 🔥🔥| Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

Divider by @estrelinha-s

Snow lay thick on the ground by the time Elrond and his warriors returned from the borders of Rivendell.

“Lindir!” He called out to his steward after he dismounted and gave over the reins of his horse to another elf. “Where has y/n gone off to this morning?”

Lindir, after having seen his lord and his men some distance away, left for the courtyard to wait for them. He bowed and offered Elrond a traditional welcome and said, “Lady y/n left for the woods just beyond the guest lodgings not long ago. You may find her by the pond, I think.”

“My thanks.” Elrond turned over his sword and gloves to Lindir and walked down the same paths you did. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so. His boots left little to no imprint on the snow, and the brazing winter air itself was invigorating. It carried with it the faint redolence of spruce and fir and pine. He sighed in contentment and turned to take a glimpse of his home. All of Rivendell looked different, like an enchanted keep in a wintery land.

“Melleth?” He cried and looked around. Of snow-covered trees and bushes, there were aplenty, but you were nowhere to be seen. “Where are you?”

Nothing but the wind answered him. “Melleth?” He shouted again. “What mischief are you up to now?”

A white ball flying in a perfect arc and exploding in a spray of snow and ice after hitting him on the back was all the answer he needed. Elrond smiled, and dusted the snow off of his cloak. Then another ball flew in from the same direction and hit him on the head with a soft thud. He turned to face the direction it came from, and crouched just as a third projectile came hurtling toward him.

Orcs are not the only things determined to test my patience. Elrond sighed, then smiled to himself and made his way down another path, resolute to catch you in the act.

There was nothing to be heard after that. No calls for you, no shouts, and no commands for you to show yourself. Elrond made no sound as he moved, and that put you on edge. He could be anywhere, and you would not know of his presence until he was right before you.

A hushed silence fell over the little copse you concealed yourself in. There were no animals moving about in the brush; they were sleeping in their little dens and caves for the whole of the winter. A bird sang, but there was no other sound beyond its sweet singing. Minutes passed, and still there was no sign of Elrond.

Where is he? You thought to yourself. Had Elrond returned to the main house and the Hall of Fire? Had he ridden out with his warriors again? Or was he out there, somewhere, biding his time until you revealed yourself?

Time drifted by as if in a dream. It grew colder and a little darker. And Elrond was nowhere to be seen. Thinking that he had returned to the halls, you left your hiding place behind an old oak tree and departed for home.

“And where do you think you are going?”

“Elrond!” You squealed, startled. Elrond had been right beside your little hiding place the entire time, waiting for you to appear. The smile that flashed across his face was smug and self-satisfied. “How did you know I was here?”

He tapped the side of his nose with his finger and said, “It was your fragrance that gave you away, meleth.”

You sniffed at your wrists and your hair. There was no scent to be found on your skin or your dress. “But I am wearing no perfume,” you said in protest.

“Twas not a perfume I smelled,” he smiled again. “It was the scent of you that gave you away.”

You flushed and looked away. Elrond laughed softly. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. Truly. I quite like the way you smell. Although,” he went on to add, “I do think it is highly unbecoming for the Lady of Imladris to throw balls of snow at unsuspecting elves.”

“Perhaps,” you muttered. Then you turned to face him, your eyes bright with curiosity. “You said you liked the way I smell. What else do you like about me?”

It was Elrond’s turn to flush, and not from embarrassment. “I see,” he commented. “You wish to know more about what I find desirable in you. Let me think. I quite enjoy your ability to find pleasure even in the simplest of things.”

“Such as throwing balls of snow at you?”

“Do not test me on that, melleth.”

“My pardons.”

He grinned, and walked toward you. “I also love seeing you like this: your cheeks all flushed from the cold, your hair all in a beautiful tangle, and this cloak is quite fetching on you. A pity it conceals so much. Or have I simply been away for too long, and anything appears alluring to me now?”

“Elrond!” You gasped in disbelief. Pale blue eyes lit up in amusement.

“I jest, melleth,” he said, coming even closer. “You are ravishing as always. Now, where was I?”

“You were speaking of my cloak,” you told him. Heat slowly bloomed in your cheeks when he reached out and undid the clasps of your cloak. “And how it concealed too much.”

“Indeed.” Skillful fingers unfastened each clasp one by one. The shock of cold air dancing over exposed skin left you tingling. Elrond delighted in this, for he had been away for far too long. He had missed watching such sensations flow through your body, and he found himself yearning to savor all of it again, here and now, even though the two of you were in the woods, and not within the privacy of your shared chambers.

“I relish watching you tremble beneath me,” he began, and drew your cloak away. “How you shiver when I run the flat of my hand over your belly. And your hair… I love how it flows around my fingers when I loosen your braids.”

He reached back and slowly loosened one braid, and another, and another. Your hair soon fell around your shoulders. Elrond was not done. His hand did indeed glide up your waist and onto your belly. It made you feel warm and feverish. You shuddered beneath him when that same hand pushed you back—back until he had you caged between him and the bark of a tree.

“We are out in the open,” you pointed out to him. “Someone could come upon us.”

“They will not,” Elrond assured you. “And we need not tarry needlessly. I have missed you, melleth. Let me have a taste of you, at least.”

He dipped his head and kissed the shell of your ear and the expanse of your throat. His arms slipped around your waist when yours twined around his neck.

“Just a taste?” Your blood was already roaring in your ears. Elrond lifted his gaze. His eyes were clouded with lust. “Or more than that?”

“More than that,” he echoed, “if possible. And like I said, we need not tarry needlessly.”

��I never took you for one who loves quickly,” you remarked. “But I do not mind this being the first instance you do so.”

His eyes gleamed wickedly. “Wonderful. Close your eyes, melleth. I will see to the rest.”

Elrond did indeed tend to it all, and so much more besides. His kisses drowned out your sighs and the soft moans that followed in their wake. He slipped an arm beneath your thighs and lifted you up, growling in your ear when he felt your legs wrap tight around his hips. He nearly crushed you to his armor when he kissed and kissed and kissed, and yet you barely felt the steel press against silk and bone and flesh. All your thoughts were consumed by him, by the strength in his arms and his back, and by the hot and sinful mouth that hammered away at any sense of restraint you had.

“Elrond,” you sighed. Your hand slipped over his chest and down his belly, and beneath the silks underneath his armor. It was a trial, loosening the thin strips of cloth around his breeches, but you managed all the same. When you reached in and took him to hand, he nipped your throat.

“I see you are more than keen on me loving you quickly.” There was a sharp rip. Elrond removed his hand just long enough to move it between your thighs and tear at your small clothes. He touched you briefly, groaning against your neck when he found you already wet.

Elrond’s touch was as electrifying as his kisses. However, he did not continue with his ministrations for long. Another hunger rose to claim him, one that demanded to be satisfied. Elrond pressed his lips against yours, moaning in triumph when you guided his erection into the soft and welcomed grip of your body.

“I love this as well,” he gasped. “How you make me feel when you take me inside of you. Am I going too fast?”

“Given that we are exposed,” you countered and tightened your grip against his waist, his broad shoulders. “I would say you are not going fast enough.”

Elrond did not need to be told anything else. He set a tortuous pace, his armor now nearly cutting into your dress, while you clung to him like a burr. The discomfort of it all soon gave way to a bliss that slowly grew in your belly and spread until you saw nothing but a brilliant golden light flashing behind your eyes. Elrond shook when you sobbed against his shoulder and cried out his name. It was enough to unravel him, and with one last grunt, he spilled his seed inside of you.

Neither of you moved, even when an icy wind swept around the trees. Elrond continued to kiss you, this time with soft, quick kisses around your brow.

“We best return,” he said slowly, and more than a little reluctantly. He was shaking. His body was still caught in the aftermath of his release. “Lest Lindir or someone else comes in search of me. And the next time you wish to start a snowball fight, warn me first. I will be ready for you then.”

tags: @victoria-styles

#whimsy's christmas fics #elrond #elrond smut #elrond x reader #reader insert #x reader #lotr #twelve days of ficsmas

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leebrontide · 4 months ago

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Ok, so I still have a dream of making my own perfume. But getting the ingredients is gonna be a long term project if I need to do it on the cheap.

BUT, the same person who made all the custom nail polish colors I had for my book launch for Names in Their Blood (I still have a bunch of those, if I ever get back to tableing at events again) ALSO makes custom perfumes.

Which like, usually those cost many hundred dollars.

But I ordered one for my wife several months ago and it cost 22 dollars including shipping.

I ordered one for myself a while ago, but due to stuff beyond anyone's control, I just got it shipped today, with notes on what the creator had done with my brief. I'm so excited to get it soon!

It's gonna be mainly black coffee and cardamom, but then also thunderstorm, maple bark, fig, sweet wild mint, and galbanum. It's gonna be broody and earthy and frankly kinda sexy and I'm very excited.

Anyways, link here:

She also makes fan-fragrances.

#perfumery #perfumes

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cleolinda · 2 months ago

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Weekend links, May 25, 2025

My posts

SOMEHOW, FINALLY, I finished the fifth Silent Hill 2 commentary. May I introduce you to: Maria.

Physical therapy kicked my ass on Monday (I managed to get the SH2 posts out right before I went), and then it kicked it even harder on Wednesday, and my Post-Mortem Exertion Fatigue has been fully engaged. (PT was better on Friday. My new therapist is better up-to-date with the current chronic fatigue research and we did things a bit differently.)

I am sleeping so much (with PT approval) that I'm having to switch back to queue-based posting in case I just lose time utterly.

Things I learned from the radio station at PT: Guns N' Roses is now considered classic rock, and there's gonna be a live-action Elden Ring movie. I am married to Lunar Princess Ranni despite having never played the game (she's a blorbo-in-law), so I am wary of this endeavor. Also, fuck outta here with this "November Rain is classic rock" bullshit.

Zoologist's Tyrannosaurus Rex fragrance came up in a poll, so I reblogged my review from a couple of years ago. My perfume reviews are usually me asking "WHY IT SMELL LIKE THAT??" and telling you what I found out, and "that" in this case was "a slaughterhouse." Spoiler: The answer was somehow "rose oxide."

Reblogs of interest

Hey, let's dip into Romanian politics for a change! The thwarted clownery of George Simion.

Agatha Christie saved a little girl's life from beyond the grave, and it gets wilder from there.

Beneficent chain posts: "I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months"

"You can fight AI in indie publishing by leaving reviews"

"Look, if you’re having a bad day, here’s a 6,000 year old pig-shaped pottery pot."

"I'll believe long covid is real when someone who is not bisexual has it." Well, I'm not helping

How to connect with neurodivergent kids

"Mold fairies with their berry of choice"

Mermay 2025 art by Christophe Young

The paintings of Anastasia Trusova

"Posts that make you google the salinity tolerance of flamingos"

"OK Tumblr Geriatric Ward, let’s talk about your posture," with helpful exercises

Listen, everything involving legs is just automatically funnier to me after playing Silent Hill 2

Honestly, I would have put the Molotov cocktail quote under Sacred Texts, except it's from an actual TV show

I'm considering this one as well: "You’re just a weirdo with a gross fetish. Covid didn’t make you suddenly want to fuck dead people"

"You're either in the pot or you're holding it"

Hard lime difficult time

Video

Last week I was obsessed with the Halsey & Amy Lee song; this week it's Fiona Apple's cover of "Heart of Gold"

Also, two new songs from Alison Goldfrapp

Manul Monday: BE NICE HE'S TRYING HIS BEST

I... think he knows what he's saying?

Blumineck demonstrates a double-curved archery shot

Once again, RIP Vine

The sacred texts

I first saw "I want a new character" "Then make one" screencapped on Pinterest, and I have never forgotten it.

A taxonomy of trucks

by talos this can’t be happening

Personal tag of the week

I'm not sure why my Star Wars tag was really cooking this week, but don't talk shit about Max Rebo.

#weekend links #linkspam

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p0orbaby · 2 years ago

Note

more Katie pls

The Intricacies of You

summary: katie is a very easy person to love

warnings: none

a/n: more katie is it. I hope you like it!

word count: 734

When you fall in love with someone, you fall in love with every single little thing about them.

You fall for the way they absentmindedly twirl their hair while lost in thought, the faint crinkles near their eyes that appear when they smile, and the comforting warmth of their hand enveloping yours.

It's the infectious joy in their laughter, the unique scent that lingers on their clothes, and the shared glances that speak volumes without a single word.

Love is found in the small moments – the way they hum along to a favorite song or how they make your coffee just the way you like it, a small touch that says more than any grand gesture ever could. The gentle arc of their eyebrows, the way sunlight dances on their skin.

In the quiet embrace of a soft, sun-kissed morning, you find yourself enchanted by the simplicity of watching Katie navigate the start of her day. The room is bathed in a tangerine glow, and as she stirs awake, there's an innate grace to every movement.

She rises with an easy fluidity, the morning light catching in the strands of her hair like a delicate halo. A yawn, a stretch – the kind that speaks of a night's well needed rest. The room seems to hold its breath, as if in fear of disturbing the quiet.

There's a familiarity to her morning routine, a comforting rhythm in the way she ties back her hair and slips into a well-worn hoodie. It's in the mundane details, the casual sweep of her form across the room, the hushed murmurs of a routine perfected over time.

As she passes through the space, there's an unspoken harmony between her and the morning. The play of light and shadow accompanies her every step, and the soft hum of the waking world outside seems to echo the quiet harmony of her existence.

In these stolen moments, you find yourself drawn to the vulnerability that peeks through, a fleeting gaze in the mirror, a whispered affirmation, a pause to savor the first sip of coffee. It's a dance of authenticity, unscripted and serene.

The fragrance of a familiar perfume holds itself in the air, and you realise that in this soft, unhurried morning, you're not just witnessing practiced patterns, but glimpsing into the soul of the person beyond the athlete. In the hushed intimacy of these moments, where the world is still waking, you fall that little bit further.

But it’s when she settles next to you, on a sofa that is more than just furniture. Something you picked out when you made the decision to move in together. The start of a new journey and more than just to halves of a whole. It’s when her leg brushes up against yours as she finishes her coffee and you read a page from a book you dog-eared the night before, that you can add another reason to the list of things you love about her.

They’ve been there since before you knew her of course, the beauty marks you mean, but they never get any less beautiful. Especially at times like these where her face is fresh and clear of makeup. It’s the real her. Unfiltered and unadorned. Her freckles are new though, and you smile as they appear under the flare of the morning sun.

Freckles hold a story. They speak of sun-drenched afternoons, of laughter on sandy beaches, of the memory of summer. You watch them come and go with time and you cherish the impermanence of them. Your chest swells with pride when you realise only your eyes will lay upon some of them.

“You okay?” She asks when she catches you staring.

Long gone are the days of the embarrassment that bloomed when she teased you. Replaced by a burning desire for her to actually catch you gawking. If only just so you could lose yourself in the depth and warmth of her eyes.

“Amazing” you say over the rim of your tea cup. Because you are. You've never been better.

She responds by curling a hand around your thigh, a thumb tracing patterns over the bare skin there. You didn’t know it was possible to fall in love with someone even more.

In the ordinary, you find the extraordinary. And it’s the little things that linger when the lights are low and the world fades around you.

#katie mccabe #katie mccabe x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine

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niconiconi-30 · 12 days ago

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IN ANOTHER LIFE, THE STARS LIED | JJK | ONESHOT

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･

A Jeon Jungkook x original female character fanfiction

ღ blurb: The library of breaths, in the town of Hwaseong where ancient presence of mythical creatures are believed, are present perfume shaped bottles preserving every person's last breath. Jungkook, a "reader" , engulfed in the twisted curse of his fate, is bound to suffer or survive. Destiny is cruel, always demanding. The cost? his lover.

ღ relationships: f/m ღ characters: jeon jungkook, OFC ღ genre: romantasy ღ trope: Magical realism, star-crossed lovers

ღ word count: 8.5k

ღ Tags/warnings: Magical realism au, paranormal, spirits, ghsts, heavy angst, major character death (dont cry pls),librarian jeon jungkook, soul bond, deaths, supernatural, heartbreak, loss, forbidden, time skips, flashbacks, grief/mourning, afterlife, more angst

ღ also on: ao3

'Held me in your arms just a little too tight'

It is said that in the moments before death, the soul gathers everything it cannot say and folds it into a single breath.

And in the small township of Hwaseong, built and molded by ancient priests and disciples of almighty- The notion of sacredness permeated lives, exerting an undeniable and profound influence over every facet of the town people’s existence. People believed in the presence of afterlife, in the everlasting life prevailing beyond the biological presence of one’s system. They believed a man’s corpus is only exquisite for the presence of the divine soul that is the only veritable element.

Therefore within such spirit lies the most virtuous form of authenticity, of truth. Hence spirits are believed, by the people. More supposedly, the existence of soul and that, every person’s last breath is the whiff of the soul.

They believe, karma is in the last breath.

Man’s entire repent is in their last breath.

Hence believers that they are, the town, nestled between misty hills and the winding Saecheon River, feels suspended in time, where the past lingers in the quiet, cobblestone streets. In the far end of the town, tucked away behind a veil of ancient willows, there stands a small, unassuming building - the Library of Breaths. It’s easy to pass by it unnoticed, for it is neither grand nor imposing. The structure itself is old, its wooden exterior weathered by years of rain and wind, the roof sagging slightly under the weight of time. But it is in this solitude that its power resides, hidden from the unknowing eye.

The door, carved from aged cedar wood, is covered in creeping ivy, its intricate design worn and faded with the years. A subtle etching of a single, spiraling breath adorns its surface, so faint that one might think it an illusion, a trick of the light, but those who know its truth recognize it as a symbol of the last exhalation, a mark of what lies beyond. For the Library of Breaths is not a place for books or knowledge in the traditional sense, but rather, a sanctuary for the souls that have passed on, captured in the very air they left behind.

Inside, the shelves are lined not with leather-bound tomes, but with glass bottles, each one sealed with a cork and infused with an ethereal mist. These bottles contain the final breaths of the departed, preserved in a way that allows their presence to be felt in the room - their essence suspended in time, like fleeting moments of life forever captured. Some are thick with the scent of jasmine, others smell faintly of saltwater or smoke, but all carry with them an intimate trace of the life that once was. The air within the library is heavy with the weight of memory, and the faint, almost imperceptible fragrance of countless lives lingers in every corner.

The Library of Breaths stands as a quiet testament to the town’s collective grief and reverence, a place where the past refuses to fade, and the whispers of those long gone continue to echo. The library is known to all, people who have sought it out-perhaps out of longing, perhaps out of loss, or perhaps because, in a town like Hwaseong, the past is never really gone. It is only held in the breaths of those who remain.

Therefore, inside the library lies secrecy among souls and the people of the town regard it with Spiritual purity.

Jungkook works in the library. He has been doing it for years. His life, basks in between books and memoirs, however with indifference for the presence of perfume like bottles alive among the serenity of everything else.

He searches for a specific breath bottle, stacked among hundreds. Each, decorated and carved, consists of last breaths of people. It’s wonderful, almost mystical, and whimsical too.

Huge squared chests are put inside hollow rectangular space. In those chests, within cleaved spaces, each breath bottle is kept, with sheer safety and maintenance.

‘A reader’s life is forever cursed.’

Jungkook walks over and up through the wooden ladder, moves over to the bottles marked 3000s. His eyes radiate with an incandescent fervor upon reaching the portion he thrives to.

Then his hand reaches out to open the one bottle- one with a small star drawn on the dark chocolate wooden frame.

Bottle #3821RS Isora Song

Isora…

The name rolled off his tongue, almost like in a whimsical pattern as if they were dug and pinned in his throat, unwilling to come out. Guilty as he is, the name is like a far memory than occurrence, like a déjà vu floating for a second. The sound feels alien on his tongue, as if the syllables no longer belong to him, no longer fit the contours of his mouth the way they once did. It was a name he has thought of countless times, but now it felt distant, like an echo of something he had lost-its warmth, its familiarity, faded into the void of time. The very act of saying it feels like an act of betrayal, as though the simple utterance can unravel everything he’d buried deep inside. Isora-it was her, but it wasn’t. The name that has once danced effortlessly on his lips now clings to him like a forgotten dream, too precious to touch, too painful to hold. The name spelt so easily and worded so beautifully that it gives nothing for the melancholy behind it.

Isora, Isora, Isora

And just like that, a forgotten and buried memory flashes back.

“Isora song” she said, a tone of elegance filled in that distant voice.

“Alright, and your sanction card, mam?”

When the receptionist said so, she unclipped her magenta brushed purse and filled in the details.

From where jungkook stands, he could observe the flow of her hair falling just upto her shoulder and her parted lips, only partially seen from behind the curtain separating jungkook’s line of vision.

No, jungkook is not a creep and neither is he fond of eyeing women, especially not burgundy pursed women.

He only looked at people who come every day to the library, did their work, rarely took up books and then walked away again into the unknown they came from. Jungkook had his own deal of works- on day shifts, minding readers who came and got them books and on night shifts, he only looked after the caskets and even though unsure of his own intentions, fed the library cat- a koshot.

Now he knew he had to take the order of guiding the said women- isora song, up to her own desired place and get her the casket.

Dressed in a soft floral wrap dress- its pastel hues echoing the pages of a spring novel, isora looked beautiful from every corner. For jungkook, to describe her, he didn’t have a lot of compliments or maybe, as always, he sucked at those lines. Never the flirty type. Never quite the charmer.

It is definitely not that he had never seen a women more alluring than her, but somehow he couldn’t take his eyes off the same her.

She was captivating, more so appealing and jungkook could only think the charm she had, he lacked.

Jungkook could see the imperfectness too-in the way her hair fell into soft disarray at the ends, strands escaping like untamed thoughts. And yet, even that held a strange grace, as if imperfection suited her more honestly than flawlessness ever could. There was something painfully human about it, something that made her feel real, tangible, within reach-but only just.

And perhaps that was what unsettled him the most—not the way she looked, but the way she made him feel. As if he were reading a story for the second time and somehow discovering a line he never noticed before. A line that suddenly meant everything.

She wasn’t perfect, just impossible to unsee.

‘A reader has the ability to, at times, know your emotions.’

Jungkook pushed himself off the ladder he was leaning against and walked over her, who in return turned and handed over her card. Closer, jungkook notices her eyes puffier than the ordinary, unusual, unmatched to her glow.

Although curious, jungkook took her to her destined card number-

Bottle #1997JK Haneul song D.O.B- 3rd January 1965 D.O.D-16th june 2010

Who’s she? Jungkook wondered but thought better to not budge.

Isora’s eyes danced and she gave a small, almost invincible eye at jungkook who then realized it was his cue to excuse himself. Aside one of the corners, jungkook is peacefully settled, biting the corner of his thumb.

He could hear sobs, silent and unappreciated sobs. Sometimes you see people and wonder how their life could be, but if it’s someone’s that had caught jungkook’s mind to find the most unpredictable one, it is this woman’s.

She’s crying. He could make that much. People cry, at times, in this library as a show or genuinely- begging mercy. Jungkook had no idea of hers. He only titled his head a little, peeking to find her stand there, just stand…..

Maybe, taking risks are a fun adventure but what about risking asking a woman, jungkook’s age at most, go and comfort? Terrible idea.

“Isora….?” Jungkook mumbled, hesitated.

Her eyelashes flutter once, twice. When she looked sideways to meet his doe-eyes, maybe jungkook was wrong at every single judgment. She is the most beautiful woman to him.

Her eyes were like two drops of coffee in a cloud full of milk.

“My mother” she says, again the feather of a voice. So close, so distant.

Now, jungkook braves to walk up a one or two steps closer. “I understand” yes, he did. Having lost one himself, he knew.

“She…she” her voice stuck and jungkook’s did too. Stop being an idiot.

“I was on my flight, away from home, going to pursue studies. I was angry at her, said her things and next I knew…..i…i….was” she stops, jungkook only looked.

“I was in a fucking flight….not being able to take calls, dreaming big, and then, do you realize how it is not being able to be there to help your mother…..not hear her words, not be with her, fucking loser…..i feel like a loser…..”

“won’t tell you words to comfort because, fuck, had I been in your place, that would have killed me too” jungkook said, worried if that was the right thing to say.

“I was angry at her, and I …..said her things……was it me who killed her? my foolishness, my negligence? My carelessness?” and she was crying

“Isora, isora, look-“

But she was a crying mess.

“I couldn’t even hear her last words”

Jungkook blinked.

“Yes, you can” when isora looked up, her lips parted and eyebrows furrowed. “I can help you hear them” jungkook knew he had fucked up.

“What?” “did you take the casket?”

“I-yes, what?”

“Relax” jungkook stayed unsure of his own actions, wondering what turned him to say this. Only had he kept quieter and as far as being correct and legit, he was too late.

Let that happen.

Back of the library, in the small lane joining to the highway bridge, both sat. the whole time, isora remained unmoored. Jungkook only believed he wouldn’t mess this up.

And in order to completely solve this , jungkook had to let her know a thing or two. Maybe the mystery of his entire life.

“isora” she turns “i…am a reader”

Mystic town of Hwaseong, had mysterious, outwardly people and some mystical abilities too.

A reader is the kind of soul who, upon taking or inhaling even the faintest trace of someone's final breath, carries it like a spell-able to hear the last trembling thought, to see unsaid words shimmer in the air like fading stars, and to feel the ache of a goodbye that was never spoken.

There are rules in a reader’s life- many of which known by jungkook.

‘A reader can only make three reads’

Meaning jungkook had done none which in a way made him more wallowed in to know how exactly could that be done. He cannot tamper with someone else’s breath but there was a weeping girl, asking to know her mother’s last word. Could not jungkook be a little more selfless to commit this sin?

He took the casket from her, examining it. He keeps the casket down in middle of the grassy field, without anyone’s presence near where.

Jungkook stood before the casket, the world around him stilled into something more ancient than silence. He didn’t flinch as he stepped closer-only slowed, as if the moment had thickened, urging him not to rush. This wasn’t mourning. This was something else. Something sacred.

He rested a hand on the edge of the casket, fingertips brushing the cold wood, as though it could speak. In his other hand, he held nothing-no candle, no letter-just space, empty and waiting, as if it might catch what remained of the soul inside. His breath steadied, then softened. And he did what only a true reader could do.

He breathed the breath in.

Not all of her,never all. Just a trace, the softest echo of her final exhale, like smoke trailing off a candle extinguished mid-prayer. He took it in with the gentleness of someone borrowing a story that wasn’t his, holding it in his lungs like a relic. The room didn’t change, but inside him, something shifted. Something opened.

It was quiet, but not empty. Behind his closed eyes, the world fluttered. He began to hear it-fragments at first. A word, unfinished. A laugh, remembered. The weight of something unspoken. He didn’t know, or the color she loved most, or what broke her heart at twenty. But he knew this: her last thought had shape. It was curled in the breath he now carried.

A name. A regret. A confession. Maybe all three.

And Jungkook, eyes still closed, heard it-not with his ears, but with the ache in his chest. It wasn’t a message for the world. It was barely a whisper meant for anyone at all.

But he would carry it.

He opened his eyes slowly, stood back up, and exhaled softly, reverently as if placing her final thought gently back into the silence. The breath he borrowed was now part of him, tucked between the pages of his soul.

Because that’s what readers do.

They read what no one else can see.

And sometimes, they read the end of a life-not to understand it, but simply so it won’t be forgotten.

Isora, blindly stared at the strangeness, half-believing all this to be a falsity created out of boredom of library workers. Still, she tiptoed to where he stands, her lips trembling, and her hair flowing. She had learnt about readers and their life but watching someone do the thing is like a spell, like a foreign vision.

Then jungkook grabs her wrist, lowering her knees down to make her feel, see, note what he achieved. To be able to be a part of his victory.

Under the stars that shimmered, that twinkled, and the moonlight aglow, they both knelt beside the casket and not as mourners, but as witnesses to something unnamable. The air around them held a hush, as though the universe itself was pausing to listen.

Jungkook didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hand remained wrapped gently around Isora’s wrist, grounding her, guiding her, steadying the shiver in her breath. She could feel it now in the way the subtle pull in the space between them and the woman who no longer breathed. It was not cold. Not eerie. It was a presence, gentle and aching, like a melody remembered halfway through silence.

He tilted his head slightly, encouraging her to lean in.

And she did.

Her breath caught as the warmth of the final trace brushed her skin, as if the soul had left behind a part of itself—delicate, fragrant, like perfume still lingering on an empty pillow. Isora’s eyes widened, shimmering with unshed tears, and she gasped, not from fear, but from recognition. The word was still there. The thought, suspended. Fading, but not yet lost.

She saw it. Felt it.

A sorrow that hadn’t found its voice. A love never confessed. A goodbye that never reached its ending.

“It’s okay, I am dying a peaceful death”

The gentle acceptance in her mother’s voice, so full of tranquility, felt like a quiet slap to her chest. The weight of those words crushed her, mingling peace with an overwhelming surge of guilt and sorrow. Her mother had found solace, but Isora, consumed by the sting of lost time and regret, could not. The calmness her mother had embraced in her final moments was something Isora had never allowed herself to understand until now. It was a peace she could not share, could not grasp, not when she had been so far from her mother, angry, distant, and unspoken. And so, in that moment, a tide of conflicting emotions crashed over her of grief, guilt, and the faintest, unreachable longing for the peace her mother had died with, a peace Isora could only wish to one day find within herself.

And for the first time, Isora understood: this wasn’t a gift. It was a burden. A sacred weight that readers bore so others wouldn’t have to. So the forgotten could still be known. So that last breaths could still become words.

Her fingers trembled, not from fear, but from awe. She looked at him then, really looked and in his eyes, she saw not a boy made of mystery, but a vessel of memory.

“You heard her” she whispered.

He nodded, slowly. “And now you have too.”

In the stillness, beneath the soft hush of stars and the eternal patience of the moon, they both sat in the tender echo of a life that had almost vanished. Almost—but not quite.

Because two hearts had listened.

And one breath had been shared.

So, how could it be possible now to let go of each other? Maybe, not really.

After that night, when the final breath hung between them, everything changed. It wasn’t immediate-there was no grand gesture, no sudden fireworks—but there was something steady and quiet in the way they grew closer. It wasn’t the kind of love that hit you all at once, like a storm. Instead, it felt more like a slow sunrise which was gradual, but undeniable.

Their relationship bloomed like something half-wild and half-tended, a garden in the back of an old library where sunlight only reached in the afternoon. It wasn’t sudden, or even obvious to most. There were no confessions whispered under starlight or dramatic moments where everything changed at once. It just… became. A shift. A presence. A softness that lingered longer each time they were together.

They learned each other in pieces. In the way she tucked her sleeves into her palms when she was nervous. In the way he avoided eye contact when he was trying not to smile. They shared things without asking, a scarf in winter, a pair of headphones, the last bite of something warm. But more than anything, they shared silence. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that settled between them like a blanket which was comfortable, known.

When it rained, she’d rest her head on his shoulder, and he’d sit a little straighter, not because she asked, but because it felt like the right thing to do. When she had bad days, she didn’t need to explain. He’d know, just from the way she walked, slower, like the world was heavier. And he would be there, sitting beside her, not fixing anything, just staying.

Time moved differently around them. Slow in the right places, fast in the quiet ones. They measured days by library hours and evenings by how many minutes they stayed after closing. They memorized each other the way you memorize your favorite pages in a book about reading not by force, but by returning to them again and again, until they’re just a part of you.

Some days were ordinary. College. Assignments. Long bus rides with tangled ear buds and sleepy heads leaning against cold windows. Other days were heavy as grief still lived in the corners of her, and he still didn’t always know how to help. But he stayed. And she noticed. That meant more than anything.

They didn’t need big moments to feel big things. Sometimes love showed up in the way he’d remember her favorite tea or the way she’d leave little notes in his notebook with hearts so faint he almost missed them. It was in the way their hands found each other under tables and their feet bumped in silence, neither one moving away.

There was a kind of softness to the way they fell in love, like the sound of a page turning or the way light hits a window at just the right angle. It wasn’t a love that demanded to be seen. It was a love that lingered. That settled. That stayed. And though they were still learning who they were-awkward and young and unsure of everything-they knew, without needing to say it, that something about this was real. Not perfect. Not forever, maybe. But real.

And sometimes, at nineteen, that’s more than enough.

One fateful evening it was that they shared, in the backyard once again. Surrounded by quietness, of the cat purring, trees moving, it was a simple and intimate night shared by the two.

They don’t take of breaths now and neither of his powers. They only talk of stupid things and of their desires, their aims, and everything you share at twenty.

“do you know the fact some studies suggest that it takes only about four minutes for someone to decide if they’re attracted to someone romantically. While it varies for every individual, the idea that "first impressions" are made quickly is supported by some psychological theories” Isora mumbled. Jungkook only chuckled.

“What…is funny?”

“You are…..” jungkook shook his head, partly looking at isora “what is this? Another of the studies similar to men’s first love theory, or that…last 7 minutes of someone’s life belongs to-”

“7 seconds…” isora looked down, on the tacos they were sharing. Jungkook knew the mood of hers- the slightly annoyed, half amused.

“Alright, 4 minute theory it is” jungkook tried to lighten her up. “and how much did the world change If I say it took me quite a few months to decide I am in love with someone?”

“the world changes a lot….” She spoke with sarcasm laced in her tone. Jungkook was not in the least perplexed to see her annoyance

“Right. It did. Did for me”

Isora looked at him.

“My world makes a lot more sense with you in it, Isora”

And there was it, one of the several indirect ‘I love you’s they shared.

5 years went like this. Between coffee dates to stargazing. Between beach side walks to listening music under the moonlight. Between board games and paintings. Between library and breathings. Life moved on, so did their love.

Apparently people of Hwaseong believed in fortune and fortune tellers. Isora and Jungkook weren’t any cynical either. So, in one of the small shops of the main market, they went to show palms and unveil their fate. Only if it wasn’t so twisted.

The room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows against the walls. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and incense, swirling in an ethereal dance that hinted at secrets waiting to be uncovered. A heavy, velvet curtain adorned the far wall, its deep crimson hue a stark contrast against the dusty, worn wooden floor beneath.

At the center of the room stood a round, worn table, draped in an intricate, deep purple cloth embroidered with symbols too old to decipher at a glance. A crystal ball rested upon it, its surface gleaming under the soft light, as if beckoning them closer to some otherworldly truth. The fortune teller, an elderly woman with hands that seemed both fragile and wise, sat beside it, her robes a blend of deep midnight blue and gold. Her eyes, clear and knowing, were focused intently on the pair before her.

Isora and Jungkook, both hesitant yet intrigued, stepped forward. Isora's gaze swept over the room, taking in the heavy tapestry of thick, rich carpets and shelves lined with jars of herbs, dried flowers, and relics of mysterious origin. The air hummed with an almost imperceptible energy, as if the very room itself was alive with the weight of countless past visitors. The soft rustle of the curtains as a faint breeze filtered through the cracked window seemed to add to the sense of reverence.

"Place your hands upon the table," the fortune teller’s voice broke the silence, low and almost melodic. Her fingers gestured toward the space between them, inviting them to surrender their fate.

Jungkook exchanged a glance with Isora, his heart racing with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. Slowly, he extended his hand, its palm warm and steady, and laid it alongside hers.

The fortune teller leaned forward, her gaze intense, as if she could read the very essence of their beings through the lines etched in their palms. The room seemed to hold its breath as the soft murmur of her incantations filled the space. Time slowed, and the world outside this dim, mysterious chamber seemed to fall away.

But then, as soon as the fortune teller’s fingers made contact with Jungkook's palm, the air in the room shifted. The elderly woman’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, flickered with a mix of shock and fear that sent a chill down Isora’s spine.

Suddenly, the fortune teller recoiled, her chair scraping violently against the wooden floor as she lurched backward. Her face drained of color, her hand shaking violently as if she had touched something alive, something dangerous.

“No…” she whispered, almost too quietly, the word trembling as though she couldn’t quite believe it herself. Her voice faltered, a deep unease seeping into her words. “This… this is not possible…”

Isora’s heart raced, her mind reeling as she turned to Jungkook. His expression mirrored her confusion, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted in surprise. “What’s going on?” Jungkook asked, voice laced with a rare tremor.

The fortune teller, still staring at his palm as if it were some kind of cursed object, raised a trembling hand to her forehead, a bead of sweat forming on her brow.

“Go away! Go away!!” the lady yelled, shouted as she dragged herself away.

For a moment, she seemed lost, as if struggling to find words. Her voice broke through the suffocating silence, trembling but resolute. “Leave now, for heaven’s sake, leave now” she pleaded as if death itself had come to wither her life away.

Isora’s mind swirled with unanswered questions, her pulse quickening as the room seemed to close in around them. She looked at Jungkook, and for the first time, the air between them felt thick with unspoken fear. The fortune teller’s reaction, so raw and visceral, seemed to cut through everything they thought they knew about this mysterious place.

But Jungkook remained still, his hand now withdrawn, his eyes narrowed with something darker than curiosity-something almost like understanding. Isora was bewildered by jungkook’s calmness.

Almost silent, jungkook took her hand, nodding in understanding there must be some default. Some missed disaster. Jungkook was not used to believing things like this, not when he himself was unsure.

Isora felt her breath catch in her throat. This wasn’t just a fortune teller’s warning. It felt like something deeper, something ancient, too old for them to comprehend. Jungkook’s hand, once a simple offering, had now become a source of something far more ominous, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever this was, it was just the beginning.

Some days went by in such timid horror. Even though jungkook stayed unbothered, isora was all curious. She thought about it in rare moments- at times they talked of breath bottles, of jungkook being a reader, of his abilities.

Driven by Altruism, she, in secrecy went to visit the fortune teller lady once again. Believing it to be another of those stupid superstitions, she walked there. The shop was closed. Gloomy and unmoving.

“hey, young lady, need any help?” one of the ajummas opposite to the fortune shop yelled in enquiry.

“Well, I, just…..is the shop closed?” isora approached her.

“For forever” she said, cutting the meat to provide to the awaiting customer.

“Huh?” “my dear, she died, just recently”

Isora felt her feet dug herself down through the ground. How much of a co-incidence could that be?

“How many days ago?” she rushed to the shopkeeper again, turning around on her heels.

“How long ago, ajumma?”

“Around 15 days”

That was isora’s cue to ascent towards the library and meet jungkook, as briskly as possible.

In the library, jungkook was minding his own thing under the dusky sun approaching evening. The light fell on his hair, and the logs that fell. Between books and breaths, he is a whole lot optimal.

“Jungkook!”

“Isora?”

“The lady…..” when calmed down, isora spoke in her strained voice.

“What happened? Calm down, what’s wrong?”

“Jungkook, remember the fortune lady we went to? The fortune teller, yeah?” isora saw Jungkook’s face a bit hardened.

“come on, jungkook….”

“Isora, are you still caught up with that?”

“her last breathe, jungkook. I want to….hear it” isora huffed, having said something horrendous. Jungkook didn’t speak. Only nodded.

“I am scared, isora”

“I am more” and in all essence, isora was repulsed. Jungkook didn’t catch that though.

So that afternoon while the sun gloomed down to a line of vermillion and apple yellow, they desired to venture once again.

The same ritual followed and in the same protocol, jungkook ushered the breath to hear her words. They say, love is blind. It makes you commit sinful proclivities. Love is however, very scary too. Often misleading. A sweet oblivion.

“soul bond is a curse”

They both heard that. Confused, they thought of numerous things.

Following that, for days soojin closed herself inside her room, determined to know what that meant. Because previously that afternoon, jungkook only felt it to be something regarding her tactics- the fortune teller’s uncanny visions. Citizen of this town, it took a lot to be a cynical for jungkook.

So, soojin was alone on that. She couldn’t seek jungkook’s support. It was painful because she couldn’t issue books from the library too.

but the only library in the town was that and so, issuing was a bitter predicament. Instead, she walked there one day in jungkook’s absence.

Top left corner, second row, third columns of the huge hollow shelves and between stacks of books, laid a book-old, unclad, unused.

‘Byeols of Hwaseong’

In one of the rusted pages was the information about soul bonds among variegated other bonds.

‘The History of the Soul Bond: An Ancient and Ominous Fate-

In the ancient lore of our town, the Soul Bond is a sacred yet sorrowful connection between two souls, destined to endure both love and suffering. Bound by divine design, these individuals are connected not only in body, but in spirit and mind, their fates intertwined through spiritual trials, melancholy, and sacrifice.The Soul Bond is believed to bring both joy and torment. The man, once bound, becomes neither fully human nor spirit—immortal and forever torn between the realms of life and death. He is condemned to live endlessly, a soul lost in limbo.The only way to release him is for the woman—the goddess of the land—to sever their emotional connection. She must "unlove" him, abandoning him to allow his spirit to pass on. This painful act of sacrifice is said to free both souls, allowing the man to finally find peace in the afterlife.Though the Soul Bond is rooted in tragedy, it remains a reminder of the eternal balance between love, sacrifice, and fate in our town's history. Those bound by this connection are forever marked by the need to break it in order to find peace.’

The next day, the lines were rehearsed in her throat, practiced skillfully. She believed the only virtuous thing she could perform was saving people. Saving one doesn’t take your life, it gives one in return. And it’s jungkook. Her jungkook. The only man she ever loved, ever worshipped.

The conspiracy of soul bond-something that to even exist is a misery. No, she didn’t thrive into such delusion on her own. Their destiny, the theory of keepers, and the way they comforted each other. The fortune teller too.

It couldn’t be about someone else because when 15 days ago, the fortune teller died, it was the same day they had visited.

Destiny is cruel, abruptly vicious. Isora was terrified to tell jungkook. Jungkook, on the other hand, was unaware.

“We are leaving different lives, jungkook” isora begun, her tone measured.

“What does that mean?” jungkook inquired, shipping sojus together on the front lawn of isora’s house.

“Means…..it’s….let’s stop this, whatever this is”

“Is soju making you speak differently?” jungkook was chuckling. Isora couldn’t look in his face.

How could she? How could she even confide in him her worry, her disdain, and suffocation? They had built a future with pearls and confetti, with promises wrapped in laughter and long nights that bled into mornings. They had stitched dreams together, each one a delicate thread of hope and desire, woven tightly into the fabric of their shared lives. How could she tear that apart now? How could she unmake what they had so carefully constructed?

She had never been this unsure of herself, never been this afraid of what might come if she spoke the truth. How could she tell him that what once felt like the warmth of the sun was now the harsh, relentless heat that burned her skin? That the laughter they shared no longer felt like home, but like a mask, a façade she had to keep up just to survive. How could she admit that he would lose himself to her, to survive and to be alive. The soul bond. The fucking soul bond.

And yet, every part of her screamed that it had to be said. She had to speak it aloud, even if it meant ripping apart the tapestry they had so carefully woven. Even if it meant shattering him, breaking both of them in the process.

But how could she?

Every time she looked at him, all she saw was the boy she had once adored with a heart wide open. The man who had promised her forever, who had made her believe in something bigger than themselves. Who under twinkling stars painted her mother’s last breath, and said words lovelier and promising than those in books they stayed between on endless afternoons.

He was looking at her now, waiting. Waiting for her to speak, to break the silence that hung so loudly. She inhaled shakily, her hands trembling as she forced herself to meet his eyes.

"Jungkook," she began, the sound of his name on her lips heavy with everything unsaid, everything that had been suffocating her.

“We were good, better even. Every day was a beauty in itself and you brought to me a life full of colors. But, we are grown up now, mature. It’s-you see, we are too different, too uncertain of each other”

“No, we are not, and even last week, we were happy. We were laughing, isora. What is it? What is it?” the soju was put barren now, forgotten. The night felt gloomier, stormy.

“Jungkook….two people love each other but sometimes it’s not only love that succumbs us, and now I feel-“

“- to hide something from me, isn’t it? What is it?”

Jungkook couldn’t comprehend the issue, believing isora had gone insane. How could he either? Her those coffee eyes were glistening now and jungkook only pondered he had done something terrible.

“Isora” he warned, his chest tightening.

“Alright then” isora cleared her throat, looking elsewhere. Knowing that jungkook could catch this act of her very soon.

“Being with a reader is scaring me”

“It didn’t for the past 5 years”

“It does now! I am scared to be with you, with a man cursed, with a man who is connected to souls. I want a simple life, a different one from yours”

Isora said this, said what she could, never in a million contemplate. Him being different, tangibly unique intrigued her, made her love and be loved by a person who lived differently. But oh, destiny.

“I love you, isora” jungkook’s voice trembled now. For him, this was a mystic miracle. A lie well blended to be poured as a truth.

“and I love myself, which means, jungkook….” She came close, trying to at least soothe jungkook’s turmoil and maybe her own. Jungkook moves back

“Then I believe you deserve a simple man, isora”

Isora couldn’t speak. The sky felt too heavy and burdensome to hold.

“And yes, maybe I was another mistake you couldn’t fix”

It was long isora didn’t cry or believed in confiding in tears when regret felt heavier. Now? Tears were the escape to the sorrows, to the falsity of the situation. In jungkook’s heart, she would forever be a aching presence. A fault done by her. A terrible mistake. But that wasn’t loving jungkook.

That was jungkook to fall for her.

As the days passed, Isora's body seemed to betray her, growing frailer with each moment. The vibrant energy that once pulsed through her veins now felt like a distant memory, replaced by an overwhelming exhaustion that clung to her every movement. Her limbs, once steady and strong, had become heavy, as if each step took more from her than the last. The spark in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by an unsettling weariness, and her once graceful posture had begun to slouch under the weight of an invisible burden.

Even the simplest of tasks felt like mountains to climb, her body rebelling in quiet, persistent ways. Her breath came shorter, and a lingering chill seemed to settle within her bones, no matter how much warmth the sun tried to offer. It was as though her very essence was fading, slipping away slowly, as though something within her was preparing to break, yet she could not bring herself to stop.

She was becoming a ghost of herself, fading before her own eyes, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Emotionally, she was a wreck. Physically, a wrinkled feather.

As for jungkook, he was beyond devastated. For once, life was blue before gray. Spring had blossomed fruitfully but they are engulfed by the sudden storm. He cried himself to sleep, unable to harbor the truth of isora’s words, her actions.

Jungkook, like any other broken 23 year old confided in alcohol, distance, calmness. Photos didn’t do justice to her face, memories didn’t mourn like him.

Days were spent in library and one day, when the yearly cleaning was being done, he was there working digilently. One or two times did he think about how they were talking of kafka and in the next moment, about SpongeBob.

The dust poured on a certain row and on uplifting it, he came handy to a certain book.

‘Byeols of Hwaseong’

Time rustled between when jungkook ran like his life depended. No, no, no.

Soul Bond is a sacred yet sorrowful connection between two souls, destined to endure both love and suffering

Two more kilometers. 3 bus stops. 4 bakery shops. 5 stationeries. Jungkook ran and ran past them, and prayed and every inch of his twisted. If only isora said so.

He is condemned to live endlessly, a soul lost in limbo.

Why on earth would she not read everything? Saving him was losing her, and jungkook could only fucking rush. There’s distance between time and fate. There’s a periphery between truth and lie. The lie would consume her.

This painful act of sacrifice is said to free both souls, allowing the man to finally find peace in the afterlife.

Afterlife? Oh how dare did isora even think her absence is the key to jungkook’s peace? He fell once, tripped, ran like a man starving. Out of breath.

Those bound by this connection are forever marked by the need to break it in order to find peace.

There’s no peace in a reader’s life. No peace. Never peace.

Because it is about a ordinary man in a soul bond that perishes this. Readers?

‘readers in a soul bond, face a different fate to ordinary mortal. The woman will push away to peace the man’s life. For readers, with distance from the reader, the woman will perish severely. A reader’s life never fades in their lifetime, but a woman in a soul bond, if away, will serve fate. The fate allows the woman to be weak, fragile and ultimately die within the time span of two weeks. Therefore, readers are allowed to not be away from the other partner to ensure their life is not at peril’

If only they had talked more about this, about them and how twisted their lives are from the mundane, the common.

Isora, isora, isora.

You had to tell me. You had to let me know what you knew. Soul bonds kill people but a reader’s death is woven differently. They are treated differently. Away from a reader will be a death’s entrance. You had to tell me. Because forever is not always a myth.

But it was too late.

Isora’s body was as pale as dried leaves in autumm. Her body seemed to wither before the very eyes of the world, a delicate flower bowing to an invisible force, its petals curling inwards as though the weight of life itself had become too much to bear. Her once vibrant skin, the shade of sunlit amber, had faded to a ghostly pallor, as if her very essence was being drawn from her by some unseen hand, like water seeping through cracks in a glass. Her pulse was faint,barely a ripple in the ocean of silence that enveloped the room, leaving only the fragile hum of her breath, fragile as a moth’s wings.

Isora’s eyes fluttered open, the color of twilight clouds which were gray and distant, as though they had seen too much. A single tear glistened in the corner of her eye, rolling slowly down her temple, leaving a trail on her pale skin. It was the only thing that moved. Her hands were limp by her sides, the veins on the backs of her palms standing out like frail, delicate threads that could snap with the slightest touch.

The air smelled of something ancient-dusty and forgotten. She felt the weight of the world on her chest, but it was no longer her own. The room seemed to pulse, a quiet, rhythmic heartbeat that resonated in the bones, almost as though the house itself mourned with her.

Her fingers twitched, a final, fragile attempt to reach for something-anything before her grasp loosened. Her hand hovered above her chest, where a small, glowing mark had begun to appear, pulsing in rhythm with the fading beat of her heart. It was a symbol, old as time, carved into her skin like a brand, as if she had always been marked for this moment-this end. A soul bound to the universe, now unraveling.

The tears from her eyes weren’t just tears—they were the remnants of forgotten dreams, of promises never fulfilled. The edges of her vision began to blur, the world melting into shapes and colors, a kaleidoscope of lost memories and fractured realities. In the silence that followed, the stars in her eyes went out. And with them, the world fell silent too.

Jungkook’s world crumbled too.

Jungkook stumbled into the room, the weight of the air pressing down on him as his eyes found her. Isora lay there, an unnatural stillness surrounding her fragile form. Her skin, once warm with life, was now a deathly pale, the faint blue veins tracing the delicate curve of her wrists. Her chest, once rising and falling with the rhythm of the world, was now still, as if the very breath had abandoned her. The warmth of their shared memories, once so vibrant and alive, felt like a distant dream, slipping away from his grasp. The silence in the room was suffocating, and it crushed him in ways words couldn’t reach. It was as if time itself had betrayed him, leaving only the broken fragments of a love that had once burned so brightly.

The room was cold, the soft glow of the fading light doing nothing to dispel the deep darkness that had settled over him. As he stood frozen, staring at the love of his life, it felt like the ground beneath him had cracked open, swallowing everything he had ever known. The future they had dreamed together, the moments they had carved out of time, all unraveled in front of him, leaving nothing but emptiness. Her presence, once so strong, now felt like a ghost, a haunting reminder of the fragility of life. Her death wasn’t just the loss of a person-it was the unraveling of everything that had made him whole. The universe had shifted in an instant, and he was left to mourn not just her, but the very part of himself that had loved her.

Isora, isora, isora….

Jungkook’s life only breathed for the sake of breathing. What once felt like a triumph ended a soul he would forever repent.

When he came out walking, avoiding the mourning people all around, his being was like a soft petal, meant to fall from a tree.

A horn blared near his ear, it’s light drawing closer, bringing him into presence.

Now, in front of jungkook lay a casket, adorned with purple ribbon- purple like the skies of a thundering night. A skyfall.

The thoughts of isora dies, as he opens the casket barren after him. The lavender is in the air, in the hollow circumference of the library. The library that has witnessed everything.

He has to hear what her last thought was, her last words, her last breath. Everything about her-the woman that was his past, his present and his shattering future.

‘if a reader reads the last breathe of another reader, within 13 days of the mortal’s death, the reader’s soul comes back to life as a spirit- a heart bearer without a corpus.’

Inside, in the corner of the shadowed and cloaked library, jungkook leans down to read her breath-her last breath.

He was crying, sobbing. Too much for the heart. Readers can read emotions, however cannot control their own.

The soft mist bloated like a willow. The breathe was a shallow wind, a smear of skin, of intimacy, of jungkook’s existence himself.

For the next hour, he stayed sitting- broken like a bird saw his nest wither away, The waves whispered as they pulled the sandcastle beneath them, erasing the child’s laughter. A candle flickered as its flame dimmed, leaving only the shadows of a once bright room. A man losing the meaning of everything.

The moonlight danced. The trees rustled. The clock ticked.

Jungkook gets up to leave now, stopped before the portion her casket was placed.

He smiles, noticing the universe meant their existence to tune together. He keeps her casket beside his own.

Because not all horns pass, some blares and knocks off the beat of a man. Love was foreign to him until isora came weeping that day.

‘A reader, in his afterlife, can only achieve death in normalcy, meaning the spirit to vanish, if after 10 years of his death does he complete his third and last wish’

‘Bottle #3821RS Isora Song D.O.B- 9th april,1992 D.O.D- 7th july,2015’

Jungkook’s await has reached its closure. The holding breath has finally exhaled.

For ten years, Jungkook waited in the library, a place where the passage of time was both endless and unnoticed. The world outside changed, seasons unfurled and collapsed into one another, yet within the library’s hallowed walls, he remained the same like a figure suspended in the liminal space between life and death. Each day, he walked through aisles of dusty books that chronicled histories he would never fully experience, their leather-bound covers holding stories of people whose fates were sealed by the turning of time. Jungkook, however, had no such luxury. He existed as a half-being, his soul anchored here, waiting for the one thing that could release him: Isora’s final breath. The library, as old as the stories it contained, had seen the slow unraveling of his existence. It had witnessed his despair without judgment, his silence without interruption. Every quiet rustle of pages, every breathe bottle, every distant footstep echoing down the hall, had become a part of his own ritual, his own patient yearning for the moment when the curse that bound him would be broken.

Like a spirit, unseen and untouched, he stood here in the library rethinking every day what could have been had he understood isora better.

“In another life, jungkook”

My world is a tangled mess. Without you, always have been.

Her eyes, her coffee eyes, blinked within him.

Her laughter, like the sound of rain pattering on the rooftop, echoed in his ears.

Her lips, like rose petal, smudged in the dark every single night.

Her voice, like serenade- tender and melodic, flowed every night under the moonlight.

He missed her, missed her still. Thought of her still.

He died, his spirit undead, untrained, impatient ached every single midnight.

Her memory was a song the wind still whispered, though her voice had long since faded.

Her absence was a canvas, and he was left to paint her absence in colors only he could see.

For him, she is the breath that he breaths every single dawn. And every dusk, her name was spoken, like a whisper, like the blooming of a flower.

And just like that, the spell was broke, his spirit was free now. Such midnights, dawn and dusk will fade away as he will stay, captured, in a bottle beside hers.

‘Bottle #3821RH Jeon jungkook D.O.B- 1st September, 1991 D.O.D-7th july, 2015’

There’s a whisper among the trees, a rustle like forgotten memories stirring upon the mist-laden desk. The fog thickens, becoming impenetrable, swallowing the world in its suffocating embrace. The wind, cold and indifferent, drifts aimlessly, retreating from the library’s sanctuary, as if fleeing from its own truth. An unseen presence lingers, piled upon the countless breath bottles, each one holding a story, a moment, a life that once was. Jungkook’s breath-his own soul’s final sigh-awaits its turn, its inevitable surrender to time. He feels it, the cruel inevitability of it all.

Ability to know others’ breathe, jungkook is in bliss knowing his own last breathe. His last thought. His last words. The echo of the same countenance, of the same coffee eyes he was forever stuck at. The face that haunted him the most alluringly.

The same name, every single day….

"Isora"

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ

taglist: send me an ask

#jungkook x reader #bts #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #bts x reader #jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook x you #jungkook x ofc #jungkook oneshot #jungkook imagine #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x y/n

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gauloiseblue · 1 year ago

Text

Asra Alnazar | Modern AU

[+18 | Adult Content MDNI]

A/N: sorry for the random ass post, but I miss soft romance AU, and he's the only comfort character that I know would fit into this. (it's a wonder what a half heart could do to a lady, huh?) Anyway, enjoy my take on him ^^

General

He might not realize it, but most of his clothes are women's clothes. For a reason that he find the texture softer, and more comfortable, compared to men's clothes

Like shirts, and the outerwears

He likes woman's shampoo (*cough* Diane) as well, because it makes his hair smoother, and smells good

He also wears skincare, but limits himself to moisturizer only. Because he once brought so many products, but he ended up not using them because they didn't fit his skin type. He had learnt his lesson

Books and poetry are his weak spots. He likes to read, and can never resist a novel with an interesting title

He treats Orpheus and Eurydice story like the Bible

Sometimes he writes, but he finds his poems terrible, so he never shares it to anyone

Surprisingly, he doesn't have any favorite movie. While he does like a few movies, there's none that touched him—to the point that it changes him as a person

People around him would debate over his pet preference, some would be so sure that he's a dog person, while the others were dead serious about him being a cat person.

(Imagine their surprise when they found out that he owned a ball python)

He prefers to cook his own food rather than buying take-out, except for the food that (1) took a long time to make, and (2) sourdough bread (or any kind of artisan breads, really)

Talking about preference, his favorite beverages are smoothies and wines. But for wine, he only likes them when they're sweet. If it's a red wine, he'd like them hot and spiced. For white wine, he prefers port wine. I can see him liking any sweet cocktail like Baileys, Sangria, or Margarita. He only indulges in alcohol every once in a while, but smoothies? Oh boy…

Contrary to people's belief, he doesn't listen to music that much. Even if he does, he's listen to instrumental music

He values his concentration a lot, and would do anything to keep himself focused. That's why he practices meditation, and he'd take some time to meditate, at least once a day.

I can see him as someone who owns a perfume shop, or a place for an art exhibition. And he won't have just one job either, he'll have many things on his plate that's relating to arts, fragrances, and wellness

When people ask him about his belief, he'd say that he believes everyone is responsible for their actions. He doesn't believe that God would meddle with people's affairs, and strongly believes in karma. He also believes in reincarnation, that's why he tries to not make enemies with anyone, because he doesn't want to deal with them again in the next life

While he doesn't necessarily believe in the personification of God, he believes in the existence of Deities, and he respects their existence as something beyond human knowledge

Which, in turns, makes him luckier somehow

(Maybe it's because Deities favor him, but who knows)

He's really bad at video games, mainly because he never takes it too seriously. But his friends would invite him to play, because he always makes them laugh

He also sings, very badly at karaoke, because he never listens to the songs

Despite of his easy-going nature, no one's really close to him. He's a private person, and wouldn't disclose anything about himself too much

But strangely, people would claim that they know him best, solely on the random facts that he had told them separately

(And it's always fun to watch them arguing about it)

Love/Relationship

Like I said earlier, he's easy-going, and that means he's easy to approach too. But that's it, that's what he'd ever be

He's approachable, but unavailable at the same time

And the reason for it, is because his idea for love is very complex. He couldn't love someone if they didn't connect on deeper level

In the past, he's not afraid to kiss anyone he found interesting, but as he grew up, he did it less and less, to the point of stopping

(Once, he got into an argument because the person he kissed believed that they had something, but he firmly stated that they're nothing. Which snowballed into a fight, and their relationship became a gossip for quite a while)

He never slept with anyone either, because he believes that sex is an exchange of energy, and he didn't want to give a 'part' of him to someone he didn't truly love

I think he's pretty much the embodiment of 'fell in love first × fell harder' trope

He wouldn't know his feelings before they hit him all at once

And when it happens, he won't know what to do, because it's very unfamiliar to him

He'd distance himself with the person he loved, while trying to make sense of his feelings. Does he really love them? Is it something that's genuine, or will it pass?

But once he found all of the answers, he's committing, hard

You won't see any hesitation from him when he confess to you

Would just marry you on the spot if he could

Of course, he'll take it slow at first, but he knows that there's no one else he wants more than you. So he'll work hard to make sure that you're happy with him

Having conversations with him hits different, because he knows you and your way of thinking. You'd say just one word, and he'd already know the whole sentence

On the fluff sides, I think he'll pretty much share things with you

He'll let you move in with him, and will let you use his things without complain

That includes his clothes and skincare

You'd be surprised to find that many of his clothes fit you perfectly. Because they are women's clothes after all

Would prefer to cook for you, but wouldn't mind taking you out for dinner either

Dating him consists of a lot of talking, a lot of kisses, and a lot of cuddles

If you need help, he won't hesitate to do it for you. He'd take care of you when you're sick, he'd pick you up despite of the distance and the time. Whenever you phoned him, you knew he'd pick up in an instant

(He knows it's not healthy, but he can't help it, his world revolves around you now)

You know the post where a man was at the party before he said he missed his gf and went home immediately? Yeah, that's him

If you wear lip balm/lip gloss, you'll find him staring at you, until you apply it to his lips as well

Since he takes good care of his hair, he'll do it to yours too. He'd buy the best products for your hair, and would take care of it twice a week, leaving your hair soft and healthy

In terms of social life, he'd pretty much introduce you to everyone he knows. Whether it's his family, or just friends

Speaking of his family, his parents already welcomed you long before you even met them. They both would exchange a meaningful look whenever their son talked about you. They trust his choice, and will give you both their support if needed

(Now that you've entered the picture, his parents won't stop talking about your relationship with him. They'd gossip like two bored wives in the lazy afternoon, about how he'd propose, or what the wedding would look like)

And Faust!! That little thing is pretty much your child now

When the two of you are cuddling, Faust will find a way to nestles between you and him

(He usually lets Faust out of his tank whenever he's alone, but he'd only do it once you're comfortable with it. Which you did, eventually. And that's an order)

You both pretty much behave like an old couple, and many of his friends point it out to you—mainly in the form of complains, because he's becoming more and more unavailable since you both started dating

But what can you say? It's not like you can escape from him either when he's clinging to you 24/7

NSFW

If you remember what I said earlier about his thought on sex, then you shouldn't be surprised when I told you he's a virgin

When the two of you had sex for the first time, he swallowed his pride and told you that he had no experience. But he made it up to you by giving you oral

While he lacked experience, he definitely knew about women's anatomy (because he secretly read it in women's discussion pages)

And he's an attentive lover, he'd be in tuned with your feelings, and how your body reacted when he did certain things

He only lasted one round the first time, for a reason that it took tremendous energy to keep him focused on pleasuring you. But now that he knows your body like the back of his hand, he won't hesitate to tire you out every time you both have sex

At the end of the sessions, he'd relish the afterglow as he kissed your shoulder tenderly

The feeling would persist, even days after the passionate night. You called it 'lover's bliss', but for him, it's the remnant of 'your energy'

Since he avoided porn like a plague, his view on sex is really different from other people, and that includes the kinks that he's into

Choking and slapping are barbaric to him, but he'd hold you in his arms really tight as he pounded into you from behind. He won't shout vulgar words at you, but he'll whisper unbelievably sweet, but dirty things that'll make you squirm. You won't be forced to pleasure him with your mouth, but he'll eat you out until you cry rapturous tears

While there's no definite correlation between fruits and sweeter cum, his taste is definitely sweet, or at least less bitter than normally. (Yea, I'm nasty, what about it)

About birth control, he won't let you take one, because he knows of the side effects. He'll use condoms instead, or have unprotected sex when it's your safe day

He's a vanilla, but he won't hesitate to make you pass out from overstimulation

Though he won't do it often, since he needs to have the energy to wake up the next day

Trivia

His MBTI type is INFJ

He wears 3 rings—2 on his left hand, and 1 on his right hand—and one of them is actually your engagement ring. He just hasn't give it to you

#headcanon #the arcana #asra alnazar #asra x reader #asra x mc #modern au #i swear I'll be back with cod content after this. just let me indulge in my comfort char and au first orz #also..... my god..... I can't forget him at all #he's like a virus in my head now

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