#are you guys streaming butter?? i am and i'm absolutely loving it ;)

[moongumi]

BAD GIRL.

pairing: gen narumi x f!reader

⟶ cw. camgirl!reader, fanboy!narumi, fluffy humour, flirting, smut, oral

sypnosis: narumi uses his fame and power to get his favourite camgirl to meet him o.O

⟶ wc. 2.7k

a/n: not proofread or edited, just wanted to indulge on some cute and fun narumi

Small whimpers and high pitched overexaggerated moans barely slips out of his headset. Chowing down on his overpriced honey butter chips and sipping on too sugary redbull, Gen Narumi couldn't keep his eyes off the screen.

He could tell, the girl was acting for the audience. Those noises were so fake, he'd laugh everytime she made them and a creepy loner would type in some cringey exposé, expressing their love to her. She'd never notice such dudes, she only notices their money and did that money just keep coming in. Narumi imagined all the amazon deliveries she'd get if she spent all of that.

Narumi didn't care that she was acting, playing it up for the viewers. All he cared about is that she's hot, so fucking hot. She couldn't fake how wet she gets, the way she cums, she probably could but why would she do that. She always likes to take her time, edging herself and all.

Even though she was hot, he only knew how hot her body was. Unlike most camgirls, this one hid her face, half her face. Her eyes would piece through his core whenever she'd touch herself. He couldn't even count how many times he came with just one look she made, just a flicker does the trick.

A knock on his door made him slip one of his headphones off, "What?"

"You've got a meeting in 30." Narumi's vice captain told him, his response was just a loud groan. Sadly, this means he'd have to cut her stream short. Fuck. She only streams every once in a while, this girl had no schedule and just streamed whenever. She claims she does it when she's horny, he bets it because she's in school still. The schedule matches up, plus the identity hidden, makes sense. She'd make a lot more if she showed her face, must've just been a side hustle.

Narumi could only hold his grievances, and focus on making himself bust a load before attending the meeting. Luckily for him, the girl was ending her stream.

She didn't even cum yet...

"Sorry guys, I just realised I have something due tomorrow and that I'm an absolute idiot who forgot and now can't cum because of stress." You're blushing as you twiddled your fingers on stream, watching all the people sending messages asking for you not to leave and a lot understanding and even relating, "Don't worry, I promise when I'm done tonight I'll come back, okay? Maybe like in the ams though so stay up for me? See ya later."

You send kisses before ending the stream, and dropping onto your plush bed with a large exhale. "Fuck my life."

You did have that assignment, you did not lie. Blowing a raspberry through your lips you huff and get off your bed. You crack your knuckles and get to work by changing into a plain hoodie and shorts.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

It was time to give up and cry. Yes, you've managed all you could and could not be bothered any longer to do your essay. If anything all you could think about was getting back on stream and leeching money off ratty men.

Which is exactly what you did.

This time deciding to do it on your table with your setup, not bothering with setting up your bed and laptop. This was just simpler, plus you were sure there weren't going to be many viewers due to the time.

3.50 AM

Preparing only with a mask on covering the lower part of your face, only your eyes were the focal point for your audience. After all, you'd die if someone noticed you in school or something.

Immediately as the red button pops up on your screen, chatters streamed in. Simple hellos and compliments started it off. Then they noticed your attire, the same hoodie.

You hummed, rolling your eyes, "Guys, come on it's like basically bedtime. Can't a girl be comfy?"

It was sort of your thing, to tease and taunt your audience. Most of your followers were probably subs or guys who liked getting told what to do since you rarely did what they asked and god, did they eat up your bratty persona.

"I did finish my essay," You start, "Sorta. I did what I could and gave up."

Playing with the strings on your hoodie as you looked at the webcam with siren eyes, you answered more and more questions, "Hmm, I'd love if you came and did my homework for me, I'd even reward you for your kindness."

Wow, they loved that.

You leaned closer to the mic and asked, "Who wants my hoodie off? It's sort of hot in here now...even though it is winter. I never got to finish earlier."

You stood, only your body in frame now. Peeling the hoodie off in a painfully slow pace, your shorts have hiked up and they could basically see the outlines of your ass cheeks between your legs. Your hips, waist then covered tits showed. The hoodie disgarded.

You sit back down, pressing your boobs together purposefully. Just a plain bra you work, comfort over everything at the moment. It is sort of the trend, girl next door. Fully fabricated overly sexual girls who showed all right away weren't the biggest on this app, left nothing to imagine or dream for. Plus, why give it for so little when you could do private shows and make them pay hundreds.

A comment stuck out more than most and you replied, "What do you think of the Defense Force?"

"That's so random," You laughed, "They do their job, I guess but I can't care less."

Which wasn't a complete lie, the defense force members are just like the police or firefighters. Sometimes you think it's probably the way they're advertised, the media aways posted about Mina Ashiro and all about how hot she is and not all she does for our country. She deserves a lot more respect. Then theres that first division captain, super arrogant and cocky guy, you didn't even know his name. Just remembering something about him being the strongest.

"Do idolize any?" You were confused, "Like one of the members? Nah."

"Why?"

You huff crossing your arms, "They're not that special, but I do like Mina. But there's that captain of the first division he's an absolute dick."

Most of the chat agrees with you but you notice the one chatter who stood out only to you.

nahnahgen: gen narumi?

nahnahgen: he's like hot right?

"I guess he is hot," You nod, "But that's all. Seems like a prick."

Gen Narumi's mouth drops, his fingers still on the keyboard. God, he wanted to slam his entire strength on it and break it right now. What did she mean, a prick? He needed to know more.

Typing quickly.

nahnahgen: a prick? elaborate

On Narumi's screen you chuckle, eyes not leaving the screen. Even now he was more focused on your answer than those jugs on your chest.

You think it over before continuing, "Well, he's like super fame hungry right? I heard he was like telling kids to tweet that he's super cool after he saved them from a Kaiju. He seems to have some moral issues and plus mid fight the guy tells kids to tweet about him instead of helping them get to safety? Seems pretty dicky to me."

Narumi fumed seeing the chat agree. He needed to prove her wrong, he wanted to prove her wrong.

nahnahgen: if he's good looking, isn't that enough?

"Like enough to... fuck?" You hum, "Yea, I'd fuck him but that's it, haha, probably would be a one-time thing. Maybe he's one of those guys who act like their dicks are huge and then they have like a micro-penis or something."

He sees red, he grits his teeth. My dick is not a small! He really wanted to prove it. He'd do anything to get your cocking on his dick, begging for him and proving you wrong in every which way.

"The guys probably never even had pussy in his life," You teased, "He seems like the type to never give oral. Literally seems like he'd just cum and leave."

Well, fuck you. Narumi hissed.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Sitting in one of your lectures you were typing away on your phone to your bestfriend and looking at places to have lunch.

Ding!

Huh? That's weird. You were getting a text through an app even though you don't let people text you unless...you were following them.

GenNarumi has requested to chat with you!

Okay? You accepted, there was no harm right. You weren't even sure if this was the actual Narumi.

GenNarumi has shared a photo with you!

You open the photo to see, a middle finger. What the fuck? This dude really went out of his way to send you, a nobody a photo of his middle finger?

Typing a response right away.

you: Why did you just send me a middle finger?

GenNarumi is typing...

GenNarumi: Cuz I can.

you: aight

Aight? Narumi's eyes widened. That's all you said, and that was all you said since an hour ago. You were ghosting him already. He had to bite his tongue and send you another message.

GenNarumi: you streaming today?

you: huh?

GenNarumi: are you streaming today?

you: i know what you said :P you don't need to rephrase that shit

GenNarumi: oki so answer it

you: stream what?

GenNarumi: the stuff you stream

you: like what?

GenNarumi: idk, the stuff you streamed last night

You stomach sunk, did he actually? He knew, he watches you?

you: WHAT THE FUCK

you: IM LITERALLY GOING TO BLOCK YOU RN

GenNarumi: WAIT WHAT DONT

GenNarumi: Y/N! DONT

You didn't know what to say, but it seemed like he had something to say as he started to call you? You pick up, but say nothing. Holding the phone up to your ear.

"Heey," Narumi spoke, "Don't block me."

You huff but whispering, "Why would I not? How do you know?"

He chuckles lowly, "Why are you so quiet? And what do I know?"

He was teasing you. Playing with you, the thing is there was no way this was a misunderstanding. You streamed last night and talked about Narumi and he texts you the next day, seems convenient.

"I'm in class," You sigh, "You know about my fucking streams and I talked shit about you last night."

"Wait class? What kind class, hold up, how old are you?"

You laughed, sensing how nervous he got, "I'm legal weirdo. I'm in my lecture."

"Oh, fuck thank god." The way he said that was strangely hot, you've only every head the way he spoke on tv, hearing it right in your ears was a whole different experience.

"What do you want anyway?" You ask, "I've got things to do."

"Pft, as if you're actually paying any attention to that class, plus I'm the one with the busy schedule you know saving lives and being cocky about it."

Ok, no need to remind you about your little bashing last night. "I'm going to block you."

He gasps, "Oh my god, don't! Ok, you see you said some mean stuff last night." He was being dramatic, pretending to wipe a tear from his eyes.

"I'd just like a chance to prove you wrong."

You hummed, slightly confused, "How would you do that?"

"Well, you said I have a small dick and can't treat a girl right," He said, lowly, "I can prove it wrong."

Somehow this made your lower half tingle, as if it wasn't hot enough in this room already. "Can we talk about this later?"

"That sounds like a yes," He says, probably smirking or something, "But okay, I'll text you."

With that he hangs up, knowing he's got the upper hand on you. You get a buzz and a phone number is sent to you. God, this wasn't just a cruel joke.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

It wasn't like you to go outside but since it was right after class you decided to take a long walk in a random park. In this kinda weather everyone was out enjoying the last bit of the sun before the sun sets.

And that's when you get a text, a text you dreaded.

GenNarumi: Sup

Could he have said anything less annoying. Maybe you were just annoyed.

you: what do you want

GenNarumi: sheesh, no need for your stinky attitude

you: answer it

GenNarumi: you?

you: cheesy try something better

GenNarumi: what? i want you, that's all i've got

you: why? you want some random girl you found on a cam website, you some kind of perv? are you catfishing me?

If Narumi could laugh any harder he would.

GenNarumi: answer the phone

You did as he said when the call came through.

"What?"

Narumi laughs through the phone sending shivers down your spine, it only had been a couple hours since you heard his voice but shit, he had a nice voice, "Is that how you start every conversation we have?"

"Every conversation with you is sus, I'm suspicious of you," You explained, walking over towards an empty swing set as the sun had begin to disappear from the sky.

He sighs, seemingly fumbling through a bag or something loudly, "Look, I'm not a catfish. I've verified on this app! I'm calling you! Haven't you heard my voice on tv before?"

"To be honest, people my age don't really watch tv," You said.

Narumi gasps, "Are you saying I'm old?"

"No," You shrug, pushing yourself back and forth with your feet, "I'm saying if you're referring to me having seen you on tv that's unlikely for anyone my age...to have seen such an old guy on tv."

You smile knowing that he'd bound to be shocked again. "You're so rude!"

"Sheesh, and I thought I liked you."

You heart races, liked you? You clear your throat, "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said, I like you," He explains.

You sigh, "I know what you said but you're going to have to elaborate."

"I like to enough to want to show you my dick, come on, isn't it obvious?" Well it was but after all he's a famous hero and you were a borderline pornstar.

He notices how you can't come up with a response.

"I'll show you how much I like you, if you let me."

You chuckle, "How would you do that, Narumi?"

With that, you see a strange figure step our in the mellow darkness only lit by some park lights and the solar lights on the ground. Gen Narumi steps out in casual attire, dropping his phone into his pocket as he walks towards you. You had to be dreaming right, this seemed impossible.

"Did you track my phone?"

Narumi shrugged, "Maybe I did."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The chains on the swing set rattle against its frame. The grass must've been freshly cut since it was digging into your knees as if they were little tiny razor blades. The only thing distracting you enough from raging was the groans being let out by division one's captain.

Your lips swollen around the shaft of his cock, his tip hitting the back of you throat occasionally enough for you to gag on it. "God, you're pretty with tears down your face."

If you could smile through your filled mouth you would, god, he was so good at talking sweet when fucking your throat.

He sat on one of the swing chairs somehow it didn't move much with his legs spread and pants down to his ankles. He didn't lie, he did have a big dick.

He swiftly moves your hair away off your shoulders, holding them up to get a good view but it wasn't like he was looking much- he couldn't. Narumi couldn't help but throw his head back from pleasure every so often.

After his velvet tip leaves your lips he pulls you up, sitting you on one of his thighs and his lips immediately encased yours, wet, soft and hot. It was like he was swallowing you whole.

"Narumi, we're-"

"Gen, don't call me Narumi only my colleagues call me that," He interrupts, biting your lips before he let you go. "Especially don't call me that when I'm balls deep inside of you."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

© togehoe 2022. all rights reserved, do not copy and publish my writing anywhere else.

#narumi smut #narumi fluff #narumi x reader #kaiju no8 x reader #kaiju no 8 smut #gen narumi smut #narumi gen smut #gen narumi x reader

[jimlingss]

can i request a yoongi chef au? i feel like yoongi's culinary skills are underrated, and I'm just a slut for chef aus in general

Anonymous said: Hi I saw ur request open posts for the new year!!! Could u write more yoongi stories🥺?!?! Your stories are so fantastic and i’m thirsty for more yoongi lolol🤪(hopefully u get enough votes to do more of him haha)

I feel like Jin’s the one who’s usually written as the chef, prob because he’s the better known chef in BTS, but you’re right! There’s gotta be more chef Yoongi!AUs, so here you go!!!

↳ Buttering Up

2.2k || 100% Fluff & Flirtation || Min Yoongi || Chef!AU

He clearly doesn’t know who you are.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

You hum, arms crossed as you eye him up and down. His black hair is practically a bowl cut, bangs covering his forehead. He’s in casual clothes — a taupe trench and black pants — looking like he’s ready for a trip to the grocery store rather than to cook. You wonder where this child crawled out from.

“You’re Yoongi?”

“That I am.” He approaches the door of the restaurant before plunging his hands inside his trench coat pockets. He fishes out the key and unlocks it, ushering you inside. “Hope you don’t mind that the restaurant’s closed down.”

You mind much more that he left you waiting on the cold city street for over ten minutes. You still can’t believe he was late. The audacity.

“I would’ve liked to see how you and your staff do your dinner service.”

“Unfortunately, we’re booked full for the next two months.”

You scoff — how doesn’t he know who you are? You’re a food critic who’s brought highly regarded restaurants to their knees through a review of five sentences. Your words alone has had rippled effects in the industry. Even the most talented chefs hold their breaths when you taste-test.

You make Gordon Ramsey look like Mother Teresa.

This Yoongi character is much too arrogant to not respect you. His new and upcoming restaurant might have raving reviews, but you’ll see what’s really going on.

“Sit wherever you’d like.”

There are no waiters in fancy garb, no hand sewn tablecloths made of silk. He doesn’t even pull out the chair for you. Instead, he’s off flickering on the lights of the restaurant while you choose a wooden table and chair right in front of his open kitchen — which is a horrible mistake in itself.

Open kitchens have always been a concept that has fallen short in your eyes. It’s much too noisy during dinner service and it gets smelly fast. Who actually wants to leave smelling like butter and oil?

It’s something you note as you get settled. 

Your coat drapes at the back of the chair and then you watch him. Yoongi’s taken off his trench as well, revealing a white long sleeve that he’s beginning to roll up to his elbows. He’s lean and his build is small, but somehow, he’s far from being scrawny. You gawk at the veins running up his forearm until he casually asks—

“Do you have a preference for wine?”

“I’m fine with any.”

He hums and comes over from the glass cabinet with a bottle of chardonnay and a wine glass. Yoongi pops the bottle easily and pours into the pristine glass with a mere tilt of his wrist. You watch the stream fill the glass a quarter way full.

“Is there a menu?”

“You don’t need one.”

Your brows raise. “Excuse me?” 

“If I were you, I’d put myself in the chef’s hands entirely and go with their recommendation.” He strides away, placing the wine bottle on the other table and then he turns with a glint in his eye and his mouth slightly crooked upwards. “Unless, of course, you don’t trust your chef.”

Oh. He’s confident. 

You can’t wait for his ego to blow up in his face.

“Fine then.” Your head tilts upwards. “What’s your recommendation then?”

He rounds his way to go into the kitchen that’s only a few meters away from where you sit. “Risotto with grilled chicken breast, topped off with caramelized onions, mushroom, grilled zucchini and sautéed tomatoes.”

You roll your eyes. What a basic dish. Isn’t it just rice? And with chicken breast?! Ew. It's guaranteed to be bland.

“Alright then.” You give a smile that might be more mocking than intended. “We’ll see how it tastes.”

Yoongi starts and while sipping the chardonnay, you take a good look at the restaurant from your spot. The place is rustic with a hint of contemporary. There’s exposed brick, wooden tables and chairs, and low, yellow lighting. There’s nothing particularly impressive about the place.

Soon, the sound of rapid, rhythmic chopping fills the space and then sizzling. You watch him intently. And you’re appalled. This Yoongi guy commits the worst cooking sins — his pan is cold when he starts throwing on ingredients. He cooks with olive oil. He overcrowds the pan. And he doesn’t even taste test once as he cooks.

What the actual fuck. 

There’s a line between arrogance and insanity, and he was crossing it.

You cringe when he starts using his metallic spatula on the non-stick skillet.

Is he even qualified to run a restaurant?!

Or maybe your assistant sent you information about the wrong restaurant? Or maybe this was not the guy you were supposed to be eating from. What if he poisons you or kills off all of your taste buds?! Your career would be ruined.

“Everything going okay?” you pipe up.

He glances up at you for the first time, eyes peering past his bangs. “Yep. Should be done in five.”

Food is simple. It either tastes good or it doesn’t. But the higher up you go and the fancier it gets, the more convoluted the food tastes with bland flakes of gold and the same old truffle shavings. That or it’s entirely boring and unoriginal. 

Or in this case, it might kill you. Which would be the first. And you’re not happy about it.

You feel unsettled when he plops the dish in front of you.

“Chef’s recommendation.”

“Thanks.”

You feel unsettled because it actually smells good. The aroma that fills your senses is flavoursome and buttery, and the thyme on top adds a fresh hint. You’re also unsettled because the plating isn’t actually bad. It’s been presented in a pasta bowl with wavy designs and the chicken breast is thinly and neatly sliced on top. It’s clean. It’s bright. It’s colourful.

But the most lethal poisons are the appetizing ones.

“Are you going to wait until it gets cold?”

You look up, brows raising at how he’s gotten comfortable in the chair across from you. Usually the chefs and waiters or waitresses like to skedaddle off and leave you to your own thoughts, too afraid to stand in your intense scrutiny. But Min Yoongi twists off the cap of his water bottle and casually downs it in front of you.

“I’m just looking at the presentation.”

“Tastes better than it looks,” he exhales after swallowing his water. 

Your expression becomes skeptical. But you take the silver spoon beside you anyhow and decide not to waste any more time.

The spoonful goes into your mouth. He watches you. You chew.

Instantly, you halt. 

The flavour hits your tongue. Creamy. Thick. But each individual grain of rice still has some firmness with a discernible texture. It’s been done al dente. There’s sweetness from the caramelized onions. An earthy flavour from the mushrooms. A zesty touch from the thyme. The chicken breast is somehow still juicy and the tomatoes burst on your palate. 

Suddenly, you’re thrusted back into your childhood. Those summer days spent in the cottage. Sun-kissed cheeks, dirtied knees, cotton dresses. You can hear your late grandmother in the kitchen. The way she calls out that it’s lunchtime. You can feel the comfort of family and love.

It feels like you’ve become the food critic in the ratatouille movie. 

You almost cry.

“What do you think?”

You clear your throat. You have to be honest. There’s no way you can lie about something like this. “It’s good. I think...this is the best risotto I’ve ever had. You cooked it perfectly and the toppings you chose were absolutely immaculate with this dish—”

You look up at him. Min Yoongi has an enormous, cocky smirk plastered across his stupid face.

It’s entirely off-putting. 

“But of course,” you quickly add, “there are many ways you could improve on it. You could add cilantro—”

“That would unnecessarily drown out the notes of thyme you taste,” he rebukes without a single beat and you scoff. 

“I noticed you didn’t add any pepper to it which could deepen the flavour.”

“Except this dish doesn’t need it,” Yoongi deadpans. “You don’t need to help me make any adjustments. I think I know what I’m doing better than you are. Just do your job and I’ll do mine.”

You suck in your cheek and narrow your eyes on him before you take another bite of the risotto while it’s still hot. “The food is delicious, but I must say, the company really spoils it.”

Yoongi’s slumped with one cheek resting in his hand, elbow on the table. He lazily stares at you with that smirk of his. “Really? Because if I didn’t know any better, you look nervous rather than annoyed.”

You scoff for the second time. “Why would I be nervous?”

“Maybe you didn’t expect the food to taste as good as it does and that makes me unexpectedly attractive,” he states plainly. You almost choke. You hit your chest as you sputter. “Or maybe you’re intimidated by me. I’ve gotten both before.”

You wipe your mouth with the napkin. “I’m afraid you’re not very perceptive, Min Yoongi.”

“Really? I think I am.” He smiles, the corners of his mouth quirked. “I’ve read your reviews before.”

You’re unamused. “Have you now? So you must know how difficult I am to satisfy.”

His smirk is sly and it’s jarring against his softer, more tender features. He’s smaller than the men you’re used to being around, but somehow it feels like he’s taken up the entire space of the restaurant. His focus on you is sweat-inducing. Even if you don’t want to admit it. 

“I don’t think so. You’ve just been eating shit food,” he says bluntly and your brow cocks. “You just need someone good you can trust. Someone who can take care of you properly.”

You’re not sure if the double entendre is purposeful. You wouldn’t put it past him.

“And is this someone you?”

Yoongi shrugs and sits back. “It could be.”

You grab your glass of chardonnay and gulp the rest in an effort to stop the conversation before it completely derails into a different direction. Yet, Yoongi’s half-lidded and darkened eyes stay on yours with each swallow. He’s unfazed. Unbothered. And that bothers you even more — bothered in a way that makes your face hot.

There’s a clack as you put the wine glass down and gasp. 

“I’m a professional.” You won’t be swayed so easily. “I can’t be bribed.”

“Of course.” He blinks as if he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. You glare at him and he gestures to the dish. “Please. Keep eating.” 

You finish the plate.

“Do you want any seconds?” he asks as he gets up.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Yoongi lingers, all too brazen and fearless. “If you don’t get any more now, you might have to come back for more.”

This time, you don’t try to hide the roll of your eyes. “That’s a presumptuous assumption.”

Yoongi smirks and his voice is husky. “After getting a taste from me, everyone comes back for more.

You scoff.

Min’s Restaurant Review

Three nights ago, I ate at Min’s Restaurant and met the main man in the kitchen. Unfortunately, he is a difficult person to interact with. I hope no one has the disservice of having to speak to the chef behind the dishes. Doing so may as well ruin the experience. Furthermore, his cooking methods are unconventional and unorthodox. It was completely shocking to watch.

However, and what I would consider most important, the food at Min’s Restaurant is spectacular. What Min’s Restaurant lacks in likeable personnel, they make up in the served cuisine. The meal that was prepared for me not only subverted my initial expectations, but overcomes, what I consider, what the food industry is lacking in this modern age exactly. Without unnecessary garnishes and ingredients, the flavours of Min’s Restaurant are both light and deep. It was an undeniable delight to consume and for the first time, I licked my plate clean. 

It is undoubted that the man behind Min’s Restaurant has the hands of god.

You should have pride.

But you’ve always loved good food. It’s your Achilles heel. It’s the one thing you’ve been passionate about since you were a kid. The reason why you love your job.

Even after writing such a review, you find yourself booking another reservation. But as a customer instead of a critic.

Of course, they were booked full for the next six months, largely thanks to your review, and they swiftly refused you with numerous apologies. But they called back not ten minutes later. You have a feeling that your name finally sunk into them — that he had something to do with it. 

That theory is confirmed when you arrive. The person in question is next to the seemingly nervous hostess as the noisy kitchen echoes throughout the busy restaurant. 

In the low lighting, Min Yoongi stands there with a relaxed smirk. As if he was expecting you. As if he knew you’d come crawling back to him to eat out of the palm of his hand, literally and figuratively.

You hate that he’s right.

“Welcome back.”

#bts fanfic #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fluff #yoongi scenario #yoongi reader insert #bts scenario #bts fluff #bts reader insert #yoongi x reader #honestly this is one of my favourite drabbles out of the entire collection #I think someone else mentioned there's not enough flirty Yoongi out there #AND I AGREE #this man naturally has big dick energy and I love it lmao #jimlings #Anonymous

[thewidowsghost]

Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 1

So, I started this on my Wattpad, and if figured I'd just put it on here! Just tell me if you want me to add you to the taglist!

Percy's POV

My name is Percy Jackson.

I am twelve years old. I'm a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York, and my sister, (Y/n), taking online schooling at home.

Am I a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that.

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan—twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

I know—it sounds like torture. Most Yancy field trips were.

But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.

I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn't get in trouble.

See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a Revolutionary War cannon. I wasn't aiming for the school bus, but of course, I got expelled anyway. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I sort of hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. And the time before that...Well, you get the idea.

On this trip, I was determined to be good.

All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac girl, hitting my best friend Grover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich.

Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must've been held back several grades because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don't let that fool you. You should've seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.

Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwiches that stuck in his curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn't do anything back to her because I was already on probation. The headmaster had threatened me with death by in-school suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip.

"I'm going to kill her," I mumble.

Grover tries to calm me down. "I'm okay. I like peanut butter -" He dodges another piece of Nancy's lunch.

"That's it." I start to get up, but Grover pulls me back to my seat.

"You're already on probation," he reminds me. "You know who'll get blamed if anything happens."

Mr. Brunner leads the museum tour.

He rides up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery.

It blows my mind that this stuff had survived for two thousand, three thousand years.

He gathers us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top, and starts telling us how it was a grave marker, a stele, for a girl about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was trying to listen to what he had to say, because it was kind of interesting, but everybody around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the other teacher chaperone, Mrs. Dodds, would give me the evil eye.

Mrs. Dodds was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket, even though she was fifty years old. She looked mean enough to ride a Harley right into your locker. She had come to Yancy halfway through the year when our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown.

From her first day, Mrs. Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit and figured I was devil spawn. She would point her crooked finger at me and say, "Now, honey," real sweet, and I knew I was going to get after-school detention for a month.

One time, after she'd made me erase answers out of old math workbooks until midnight, I told Grover I didn't think Mrs. Dodds was human. He looked at me, real serious, and said, "You're absolutely right."

Mr. Brunner keeps talking about Greek funeral art.

Finally, Nancy Bobofit snickers something about the naked guy on the stele, and I turn around and say, "Will you shut up?"

It comes out louder than I meant it to.

The whole group laughs. Mr. Brunner stops his story. "Mr. Jackson," he says, "did you have a comment?"

My face is totally red, I think. I answer, "No, sir."

Mr. Brunner points to one of the pictures on the stele. "Perhaps you'll tell us what this picture represents?"

I look at the carving, and feel a flush of relief, because I actually recognize it. "That's Kronos eating his kids, right?"

"Yes," Mr. Brunner says, obviously not satisfied. "And he did this because..."

"Well..." I rack my brain to remember. (Y/n) would have known the answer. She was nuts for this kind of stuff. "Kronos was the king god, and —"

"God?" Mr. Brunner asks.

"Titan," I correct myself. "And...he didn't trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um, Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—"

"Eeew!" says one of the girls behind me.

"—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans," I continue, "and the gods won."

Some snickers from the group.

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbles to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life. Like it's going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.'"

"And why, Mr. Jackson," Brunner says, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit's excellent question, does this matter in real life?"

"Busted," Grover mutters.

"Shut up," Nancy hisses, her face even brighter red than her hair.

At least Nancy got packed, too. Mr. Brunner was the only one who ever caught her saying anything wrong. He had radar ears.

I think about his question, and shrug. "I don't know, sir."

"I see." Mr. Brunner looks disappointed. "Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan's stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. On that happy note, it's time for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, would you lead us back outside?"

The class drifts off, the girls holding their stomachs, the guys pushing each other around and acting like doofuses.

Grover and I were about to follow when Mr. Brunner said, "Mr. Jackson."

I knew that was coming.

I tell Grover to keep going; then I turn toward Mr. Brunner. "Sir?" Mr. Brunner had this look that wouldn't let you go—intense brown eyes that could've been a thousand years old and had seen everything. "You must learn the answer to my question," Mr. Brunner tells me.

"About the Titans?"

'"About real life. And how your studies apply to it."

"Oh."

"What you learn from me," he says, "is vitally important. I expect you to treat it as such. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson."

I mean, sure, it was kind of cool on tournament days, when he dressed up in a suit of Roman armor and shouted: "What ho!" and challenged us, swordpoint against chalk, to run to the board and name every Greek and Roman person who had ever lived, and their mother, and what god they worshipped. But Mr. Brunner expected me to be as good as everybody else, despite the fact that I have dyslexia and attention deficit disorder and I had never made above a C– in my life. No—he didn't expect me to be as good; he expected me to be better. And I just couldn't learn all those names and facts, much less spell them correctly.

I mumble something about trying harder, while Mr. Brunner takes one long sad look at the stele, like he'd been at this girl's funeral.

He tells me to go outside and eat my lunch.

The class gathers on the front steps of the museum, where we can watch the foot traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Overhead, a huge storm is brewing, with clouds blacker than I'd ever seen over the city. I figure maybe it was global warming or something, because the weather all across New York state had been weird since Christmas. We'd had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from lightning strikes. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was a hurricane blowing in.

Nobody else seems to notice, though. Some of the guys are pelting pigeons with Lunchables crackers. Nancy Bobofit is trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and, of course, Mrs. Dodds isn't seeing a thing.

Grover and I sit on the edge of the fountain, away from the others. We thought that maybe if we did that, everybody wouldn't know we were from that school—the school for loser freaks who couldn't make it elsewhere.

"Detention?" Grover asked.

"Nah," I said. "Not from Brunner. I just wish he'd lay off me sometimes. I mean—I'm not a genius, not like (Y/n). She seems to know everything."

Grover doesn't say anything for a while. Then, when I think he is going to give me some deep philosophical comment to make me feel better, he asks, "Can I have your apple?"

I don't have much of an appetite, so I let him take it.

I watch the stream of cabs going down Fifth Avenue, and think about my mom's apartment, only a little ways uptown from where we sit. I hadn't seen her or my sister since Christmas. I want so bad to jump in a taxi and head home. Mom and (Y/n) would hug me and be glad to see me, but Mom would be disappointed, too. She'd send me right back to Yancy, remind me that I had to try harder, even if this was my sixth school in six years and I was probably going to be kicked out again. I couldn't be able to stand that sad look she'd give me.

Mr. Brunner parked his wheelchair at the base of the handicapped ramp. He ate celery while he read a paperback novel. A red umbrella stuck up from the back of his chair, making it look like a motorized café table.

I am about to unwrap my sandwich when Nancy Bobofit appears in front of me with her ugly friends—I guess she'd gotten tired of stealing from the tourists—and dumps her half-eaten lunch in Grover's lap.

"Oops." She grins at me with her crooked teeth. Her freckles are orange, as if somebody had spray-painted her face with liquid Cheetos.

I try to stay cool. The school counselor had told me a million times, "Count to ten, get control of your temper." But I am so mad my mind went blank. A wave roars in my ears.

I don't remember touching her, but the next thing I knew, Nancy is sitting on her butt in the fountain, screaming, "Percy pushed me!"

Mrs. Dodds materialized next to us.

Some of the kids were whispering: "Did you see—"

"—the water—"

"—like it grabbed her—"

I don't know what they were talking about. All I know is that I was in trouble again.

As soon as Mrs. Dodds is sure poor little Nancy was okay, promising to get her a new shirt at the museum gift shop, etc., etc., Mrs. Dodds turns on me. There was a triumphant fire in her eyes as if I'd done something she'd been waiting for all semester. "Now, honey—"

"I know," I grumble. "A month erasing workbooks." That wasn't the right thing to say.

"Come with me," Mrs. Dodds says.

"Wait!" Grover yelps. "It was me. I pushed her."

I stare at him, stunned. I can't believe he was trying to cover for me. Mrs. Dodds scared Grover to death.

She glares at him so hard his whiskery chin trembled.

"I don't think so, Mr. Underwood," she says.

"But—"

"You—will—stay—here."

Grover looks at me desperately.

"It's okay, man," I tell him. "Thanks for trying."

"Honey," Mrs. Dodds barks at me. "Now."

Nancy Bobofit smirks. I give her my deluxe I'll-kill-you-later stare. Then I turn to face Mrs. Dodds, but she isn't there. She is standing at the museum entrance, way at the top of the steps, gesturing impatiently at me to come on.

How'd she get there so fast?

I have moments like that a lot, when my brain falls asleep or something, and the next thing I know I've missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe and left me staring at the blank place behind it. The school counselor told me this was part of the ADHD, my brain misinterpreting things.

I wasn't so sure. I go after Mrs. Dodds.

Halfway up the steps, I glance back at Grover. He is looking pale, cutting his eyes between me and Mr. Brunner, like he wanted Mr. Brunner to notice what was going on, but Mr. Brunner is absorbed in his novel.

I look back up. Mrs. Dodds had disappeared again. She is now inside the building, at the end of the entrance hall.

Okay, I think. She's going to make me buy a new shirt for Nancy at the gift shop.

But apparently, that wasn't the plan.

I follow her deeper into the museum. When I finally catch up to her, we are back in the Greek and Roman section.

Except for us, the gallery is empty.

Mrs. Dodds stands with her arms crossed in front of a big marble frieze of the Greek gods. She is making this weird noise in her throat, like growling.

Even without the noise, I would've been nervous. It's weird being alone with a teacher, especially Mrs. Dodds. Something about the way she looked at the frieze as if she wanted to pulverize it...

"You've been giving us problems, honey," she says.

I do the safe thing. I reply, "Yes, ma'am."

She tugs on the cuffs of her leather jacket. "Did you really think you would get away with it?"

The look in her eyes is beyond mad. It was evil.

She's a teacher, I thought nervously. It's not like she's going to hurt me. I say, "I'll—I'll try harder, ma'am."

Thunder shakes the building.

"We are not fools, Percy Jackson," Mrs. Dodds said. "It was only a matter of time before we found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain."

I didn't know what she's talking about.

All I can think of was that the teachers must've found the illegal stash of candy I'd been selling out of my dorm room. Or maybe they'd realized I got my essay on Tom Sawyer from the Internet without ever reading the book and now they were going to take away my grade. Or worse, they were going to make me read the book.

"Well?" she demands.

"Ma'am, I don't..."

"Your time is up," she hisses.

Then the weirdest thing happens. Her eyes begin to glow like barbecue coals. Her fingers stretch, turning into talons. Her jacket melts into large, leathery wings. She isn't human. She is a shriveled hag with bat wings and claws and a mouth full of yellow fangs, and she was about to slice me to ribbons.

Then things got even stranger.

Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheels his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand.

"What ho, Percy!" he shouts and tosses the pen through the air.

Mrs. Dodds lunges at me.

With a yelp, I dodge and feel talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatch the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hits my hand, it isn;t a pen anymore. It is a sword—Mr. Brunner's bronze sword, which he always uses on tournament day.

Mrs. Dodds spins towards me with a murderous look in her eyes.

My knees are jelly. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop the sword.

She snarl, "Die, honey!" And she flies straight at me.

Absolute terror runs through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally: I swing the sword.

The metal blade hits her shoulder and passes clean through her body as if she was made of water. Hisss!

Mrs. Dodds was a sandcastle in a power fan. She explodes into yellow powder, vaporizing on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes are still watching me.

I'm alone.

There is a ballpoint pen in my hand.

Mr. Brunner isn't there. Nobody is there but me.

My hands are still trembling. My lunch must've been contaminated with magic mushrooms or something.

Had I imagined the whole thing?

I walk back outside.

It had started to rain.

Grover is sitting by the fountain, a museum map tented over his head. Nancy Bobofit is still standing there, soaked from her swim in the fountain, grumbling to her ugly friends. When she sees me, she says, "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt."

I answer, "Who?"

"Our teacher. Duh!"

I blink. We don't have a teacher named Mrs. Kerr. I ask Nancy what she is talking about.

She just rolls her eyes and turns away.

I ask Grover where Mrs. Dodds was.

"Who?" he asks, but he pauses first and he wouldn't look at me, so I figure he was messing with me.

"Not funny, man," I tell him. "This is serious."

Thunder booms overhead.

I see Mr. Brunner sitting under his red umbrella, reading his book as if he'd never moved.

I go over to him.

He looks up, a little distracted. "Ah, that would be my pen. Please bring your own writing utensil in the future, Mr. Jackson."

I had Mr. Brunner his pen. I hadn't even realized I was still holding it.

"Sir," I ask, "where's Mrs. Dodds?"

He stares blankly at me, "Who?"

"The other chaperone. Mrs. Dodds. The pre-algebra teacher."

He frowns and sits forward, looking mildly concerned. "Percy, there is no Mrs. Dodds on this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling all right?"

Word Count: 3159 words

So yeah, this is the first chapter of this book.

Not much (Y/n) yet, but we'll get there.

Love y'all!              Kaitlynn ❤️😍

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