#but like I have exactly zero doubt that by like... the second half of Retribution

[antisocialxconstruct]

🌊 for your gremlin hypebeast Shiloh (bonus points if they actually fuckin admit they aren't okay)

okay but let’s be real there’s only really one person who’s getting an admission like that any time soon.

-//-

The glass smashes satisfyingly into the wall, then hits the pavement in at least a dozen pieces. By then you’re already hefting another one out of the cardboard box beside you and readying it for the same fate.

No one in your complex can afford a car anyway, you might as well get some use out of the empty parking lot. And this is at least a step up from your usual methods for blowing off steam.

You’re already wound up to throw the next one but you pause, catching movement on the edge of your vision a second before Zaven turns the corner, catches sight of you, and freezes. You must look pretty convincingly  like you’re prepared to pelt them with glassware. Their hands go up in at least a half-joking gesture of surrender and you sigh, lower your arm, and wave them over. Their eyes dart briefly from you, to the case of glasses at your feet, to the handful already shattered against the outer wall of your apartment building. “Huh,” they muse as they drift to a spot at your side–giving you a slightly wider berth than usual though, you notice. “So that’s what those are for.”

“They’re from the dollar store” is the only explanation you offer, before reeling back and throwing the glass in your hand to join its fellows in oblivion.

Zaven doesn’t say anything in response to that, and in the silence that follows you hesitate, suddenly growing uncomfortable under the familiar weight of Zaven’s quiet scrutiny. You cast them a hasty sidelong look as you shift your weight.

“D’you need something?”

“I was… in the neighborhood,” they respond slowly. Then, as gently as they can manage, they add, “rough day?”

“Yeah dude I’ve had a rough fucking day,” you scoff, “what else is new?” You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket, find nothing, mutter a sharp “ah- son of a bitch” as you squint up at your balcony on the third floor. You remember emptying your pockets onto the living room table like usual. You must have left your cigarettes there on the way back out.

Zaven just keeps watching you with guarded interest.

“I’m sick of it,” you mutter, plucking another glass from the box and turning it over in your hand.

“Of what?” Zaven asks, their tone still cautious. You glance over at them, then roll your eyes with a broad, emphatic gesture. The city? Your life? Everything? Zaven just answers a moment later with a thoughtful nod, understanding more readily than you expected. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised.

You hesitate a few seconds longer, studying the glass in your hand as you run your thumb over the faceted sides of it. Mass produced, with a vague attempt made to give it some kind of cosmetic interest. In the end it’s nothing but a cheap facsimile of something more valuable. You hurl it at the wall with as much force as you can muster.

It explodes in an especially spectacular burst of fractured shards, and just like that something snaps.

“What the fuck do I have to do, Zaven!?” you spit, and they almost manage to hide the flinch as you abruptly round on them. “How the fuck am I supposed to make people get it? I change my hair, I change my clothes, I change the way I walk, act, every- I changed everything! Did I not do enough? Am I not trying hard enough?”

You pause but you have no idea what kind of answer you’re expecting Zaven to give, and judging from their expression neither do they. But beneath their confusion there’s a hint of something else in their eyes… understanding? Sympathy…? “Is-” they start, grasping for something to fill the silence. “Is this about-”

“It’s about everyone!” You wheel around again, raking your fingers through your hair and forcing a deep breath into your lungs. “It’s about fucking everything. It’s about Herald-” you seize another glass, fling it at the wall without hesitation, “thinking a goddamn pep talk is gonna inspire us to relive the glory days. It’s about Steel-” Another glass, another violent shower of shards, “looking at me like I’m a fucking ghost here to haunt him specifically. It’s about Ju-” you falter for a second, looking down to realize that the box at your feet is empty. So you kick it, sending it tumbling end over end into the corner of the parking lot. You drag your hands down over your face and let out a long frustrated groan. It takes a concerted effort not to start sobbing right then and there.

It feels like there’s a long stretch of silence before you finally hear Zaven’s voice again, just a soft, tentative “Shiloh…?” You don’t look up, but you don’t do anything else either. Zaven’s boots scuff against the pavement as they take a couple steps closer. “I-… you’re not… doing anything wrong, it’s just-”

“Man are you sure?” you snap, dropping your hands to your sides again, balling them up into fists for lack of anything else to do with them. You’d really kill for a smoke right now. “Because I feel like I’m in a fucking uphill battle to be taken seriously and my opponent is me.” Before Zaven can say anything you turn on your heel, stalk a few paces away as you unclench your fists, shake the building tension out of your hands. Just trying to burn energy. “Julia’s got this stupid picture on her desk,” you press on before you can think about it enough to start backpedaling. You don’t really know why you’re telling them this. It’s not their business, it’s not their problem. They did ask. You’re still pacing. “Of… from before. It- I just can’t stop thinking, she…” you press a palm to your forehead, screw your eyes shut as the photo comes unbidden to your mind. Julia and Anathema, smiling. And you… a stranger, smiling with your face. “I keep thinking, for seven years she sat and looked at that photo and mourned that person and wished she could bring them back, and it’s- and I just-” the thread of that thought seems to slip out of your grasp unexpectedly, and you give up with an exasperated huff.

“You feel like that’s who she thinks of you as?” Zaven offers.

“I mean she said as much!“

You stop abruptly to face them again, just in time to catch the dawning realization break across their features. Did they not realize? Did they not question the way things stood, the hostility building in your chest and poisoning you through every new interaction with Julia?

“Again, and again, she tells me that I haven’t changed, that she waited for me, that things could go back to the way they were.” You can feel your voice growing hoarse, threatening to crack. You can feel the dam threatening to break. “But the person she- that’s not me! That person doesn’t even exist, it wasn’t even my idea!”

Then there’s another shift in Zaven’s expression, one you can’t quite track. Surprise, first, but then… “What do you mean?”

What do you- … oh. Shit.

A short, nervous chuckle escapes you before you manage to produce an actual answer. “Nothing,” you say hastily, busying yourself with a quick stride across the lot to retrieve the empty box. You can’t afford to let that dam break. Not now, not ever. “Forget about it.”

“Wait- no, Shiloh,” Zaven doggedly follows after you. “It ‘wasn’t your idea?’ What do you- Did… I push you into becoming a vigilante? Is that not what you wanted?”

You halt, crouched down with one edge of the box in your hand, and it takes you a second to fully process the question. Did they… what? Then you straighten again, and when you turn around the horror-stricken look in Zaven’s eyes turns your stomach.

You shouldn’t… You shouldn’t laugh. You can’t help it. They’re so far off the mark and what are you going to do, tell them the truth? “No- god, no,” you insist through your laughter, trying to tamp down on all the emotions you keep ping-ponging between. It’s getting a little ridiculous, all you wanted to do was be alone and break something. “No, no no no that’s not-” you cut yourself off before you start rambling again. Draw in another deep breath. Press both of your hands against the sides of the box, just to have something neutral to focus on. Something tangible, external. Something other than Zaven studying you with a growing look of concern. “Look, I- I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s not about you, I swear.”

You dare to glance up then, meet Zaven’s gaze and silently urge them to believe you. They hold your gaze for a moment longer, and you feel like they’re searching your eyes for something. You’re just praying they don’t find it.

Then they sigh, and their shoulders sink as they back down. “Okay… okay, that’s fine. Sorry.”

[1kook]

skirt chasers - drabble iii

this a skirt chasers drabble in case u couldn't tell uhhh here’s i and ii lol

summary; “I think the alcohol broke my amygdala. Your epidermis looks pretty today— did you use that toner I told you about?” warnings; alcohol mention, tit sucking, unprotected sex, use of the pull out method, uhh making out??? ratings; mature (18+) misc; educational abolitionist!jungkook, drunk jk, mentions of throwing up lol, jk is an anatomy frEAK, more skirts, more jk has questionable kinks wc; like barely 2k

notes; i wrote this in like 40 mins bc i couldn't stop thinking about STIMBO jk from skirt chasers and how cool he is enjoy xxxx also i barely rmr shit from anatomy bc it was the worst course of my life so pls bear with me

His first mistake is getting drinks with the boys. You like to think you know your boyfriend pretty well, know what he’s good at, where he excels, where he thrives, and well. Drinking doesn’t rank too high on the list.

Jimin calls a little past midnight. “Kook’s on the table,” he slurs into the phone, too loud and too sloppy for a Wednesday night phonecall.

“Ha?” you mumble back, rubbing your eyes until you see stars. The room is dark, practically spinning from how out of it you are. Chaeyoung is dead asleep in her room, so even whispering feels like a crime. “Where are you guys?”

Some bar on the south side of town, that strip where all the newly turned twenty-one year olds go to get wasted. Jungkook’s supposed to be studying for some big exam he has on Friday— at least, that’s what he told you —so it takes a few minutes of convincing on Jimin’s part until you’re shrugging your coat on, blindly navigating through your apartment for your keys and wallet. You briefly consider taking an Uber, but ultimately decide you’d rather get stabbed to death on a public bus so at least your family can sue the city afterwards.

Jungkook is indeed on the table, except the table has long since tipped over. So now he’s just sprawled across some dirty bar floor, puppy-soft head of curls spilling over his forehead. He’s so cute, so adorable. You want to kill him. “Up,” you command, channeling the strength of twelve football players to haul your beefy boyfriend off the ground.

“Baby,” he beams, looking at you but not actually looking at you. “I think the alcohol broke my amygdala. Your epidermis looks pretty today— did you use that toner I told you about?”

You don’t even know what that means, can’t even question him, because then Jin is angrily yelling at you to cover his tab. You pay with a stiff middle finger, flail the three dollars in your wallet at him, before sweeping away your poor damsel in distress. “You’re supposed to be studying,” you huff, can’t even be mad when he stops to throw up in a bush outside the bar. You’re so embarrassed, pretend you don’t know him as you pull up the bus times on your phone.

He’s huffy by the time you get on the bus, sniffling against your neck as he cries about his common hepatic portal vein thing— you don’t fucking know.

Chaeyoung isn’t too impressed with you when you bring him home, dump him on the couch while she steals your AirPods from your room. “Explain yourself,” you demand, and his head rolls back.

“I hate school,” he complains, slaps a hand down against his forehead. You’re certain he’s concussed himself this time. Then he’s bending over, head held between his hands. “Wanna cry.”

You sigh, kneeling in front of him. “You’re almost done,” you comfort him, hand on the back of his head. He’s so sweaty, and smells like all his friends colognes at the same time. “You’re smart, baby, you can do this.”

Your words have the opposite effect, because then he’s rocking forward childishly, nearly rams your skulls together and kills you. He’s reached the point of his insobriety where he’s too sad and huffy to think, sadly leaning against your shoulder as if that’ll somehow solve all his problems. You doubt it will, but there’s really nothing much you can when Jungkook reaches this point, so you settle on softly patting the back of his head until the fool is fucking snoring against you.

Chaeyoung blesses you with her divine retribution the next morning by using up the last of your body wash, and then you’re left to deal with a hungover Jungkook on a Thursday morning. You’re pretty sure he had a class that morning, but he wakes up too late for you to even try to convince him to still go, and then he’s moping on your couch in last night’s clothes. You’re getting ready for your internship, blouse half buttoned, pencil skirt wiggled up to your waist.

“Abolish exams,” he mutters, numbly staring at the ceiling as you wipe his face with a cleansing towelette. He doesn’t seem remotely interested in the shower or the pancakes you made, which lets you know this is a much more serious issue than just a drunken episode. “Aren’t they stupid?” You nod. “Sure, test me on every damn thing we’re learning right now as if science isn’t always changing and I’ll have to keep learning anyway.”

He looks over at you, under-eye bags absolutely horrendous. “Tests are stupid,” you agree, and it seems to be exactly what he wants to hear as he sinks into your arms, face buried in your chest. “Too stupid for smarty-pants Jeon Jungkook.”

Jungkook groans, flops over you on the couch all smelly and gross. “They test you for memorization and not comprehension,” he adds, finally wiggling out of his stinky clothes.

With Jungkook, you can never tell where things are going. One minute he’s cursing the education system and the next he’s kissing along your neck in his rambling fury. “As if I these materials will somehow become nonexistent once I’m working,” he huffs, hands on your thighs. Your breath hitches in your throat, fingers digging into his biceps as he mindlessly kisses down the valley between your breasts. “Shit’s so fucking stupid,” he spits, bunching your skirt around your waist.

“Jeon—“

“I’m just trying to be a fuckin’ pediatrician, for fuck’s sake,” he growls, hastily undoes the front buttons on your blouse. Your black bra comes into view, heart pounding in your chest as Jungkook makes quick work of reaching behind and undoing it, pushing it away, and cupping your breasts in his palms. He guides one of your legs around his waist, tucks it around him as he gets to work raining down kisses on your tits. “So pretty, doll,” he murmurs, pretty pink lips leaving smooches down your chest.

You bite down on your lip, watch through hazy eyes as those big doe eyes flick up at you, tongue swirling around your nipple. “N— Not tired anymore?” you pant, hands in his hair. It’s still dry and knotted from last night’s adventures, but you don’t mind. Not when Jungkook’s hard cock is flush against your thigh.

“Nah,” he confirms, rolling his hips forward against your core. Oh he was horny horny this morning. Or was he angry horny? You don’t care, either way you were winning. “I serenaded you last night, y’know?”

You snort, but it morphs into a whimper when he captures your rock hard nipple between his perfect teeth. “Not a serenade,” you whimper, fingernails running along his scalp, “if I’m not there.”

Jungkook leans back, lets you breathe for a second as he unbuckles the front of his pants, jeans pulled down around his thighs. And of course he’s hard as fuck by now; this was Jeon Jungkook you were dealing with. He could get it up and going in two seconds flat at the mere sight of your collarbones. “You were there,” he insists, capturing your hand in his all romantic like until you’re flustered and shaking him off. He levels you with a cheesy grin, presses your palm against his chest. “Here.”

You gag. “That’s disgusting.”

Jungkook laughs, all squeaky and airy because he’s never given a fuck about looking cool in front of you. His next words only prove your point. “Why? Don’t like being nestled against my left lung and esophagus, all sexy like?”

You roll your eyes, tug your panties aside to give him a full view of what his dorky anatomical talk has done to you. “Dick me down or go away,” you say, pointer finger nudging his chin up when he stares too long

He snaps his teeth at you, almost bites your finger, the fuckin’ weirdo. “Sassy today,” he teases, presses the tip of his cock against you. Both of you groan, watch as he glides himself up and down your folds, angry mushroom head pushing against your clit. “Always so wet for me,” he mumbles shakily, eyes zeroed in on your wet folds and how slick they feel against him. “Didn’t stretch you out again.”

“Yo— You’re mean about that anyway,” you pant, pulling him closer by those firm ass cheeks of his. “I can tell when you’re using me as a reference model.”

Jungkook gasps as if he’s genuinely scandalized by your claim, follows your wordless command and finally lines himself up with your quivering entrance. “I’m a hands-on learner,” he offers, his cheeky smile still on his face until he finally sinks into you and his features twist up all pretty. “Your pussy’s just so pretty, baby,” he grunts, hand on your hip.

Your face feels warm, from the pleasure that rolls over your body and the vulgarity of his words. “Shush now,” you say, try to sound strict and in command, but he’s got his other hand cupping your jaw, looking at you like you’re a goddess and not some dorky college student in their even dorkier internship uniform.

“Temptress,” he mumbles, pushes past your clenching lips until he’s flush against you, your walls spasming around his cock because he just feels so good. “Tried to sneak past me in that tiny skirt.” He draws back, lets his swollen head catch at the entrance before sliding back in, pace slow and sensual, too intimate for some random Thursday morning. “Little doll just needs to be fucked in the morning, doesn’t she?” A pitiful whimper catches in your throat, eyes rolling to the back of your head with every glide of his dick back inside of you.

“N- Not my fault you have naughty eyes,” you whimper, hand coming up to bite at your knuckles as Jungkook continues to fuck you so sweetly. “Fuck.”

Jungkook ducks over you, wavy hair tickling your forehead as his hot breath fans across you. Smells like the mouthwash you made him take and hints of last night’s alcohol. “Can’t help it,” he husks, capturing your lips in his. Sloppy and wet, tongue clashing with yours as he guides you along, hips slowing to rhythmic ruts that have you moaning after each roll.

A few drawn-out thrusts later and you’re coming, body so sensitive this early in the morning, and it certainly doesn’t help that Jungkook looks like that (sweaty and worn, dark eyes watching you writhe beneath him). Surprisingly, it takes him a few more rushed thrusts before he follows, barely managing to pull out in time before his sparkling cum is splattering over your tummy and the skirt bunched around it. “No,” you whine, melting into the couch. “Jeon, this is my only one,” you complain, rubbing a hand over your eyes as if that’ll somehow make your legs work again enough to push him off.

Jungkook says nothing as he tucks himself back into his boxers, chest heaving from exertion as he crashes back onto the couch. “Liar,” he responds after a moment, out of breath and half asleep again. He’s still technically hungover. Hand lazily drawing circles on your knee as you sit up, wiggling your skirt back down. He gives you this indecipherable look. “I hid the other one under your dresser.”

You smack his arm. “Why the hell would you—“

He tackles you back into the couch, presses the stain into your skirt. It must feel gross against his naked tummy, but Jungkook doesn’t seem to care. “Makes me too horny,” he announces, pout pressed against your neck. “I had a teacher fantasy the other day. Did I tell you?” You roll your eyes, resigning yourself to this new life squashed beneath your boyfriend. “You were my high school anatomy teacher and I failed, so you made me stay after school for supplemental lessons—“

“That’s an abuse of power,” you point out, back to carding your hands through his now sweaty and greasy hair. “And you would never fail an anatomy class, that’s literally your comfort area of study.”

“Listen,” he stresses, lifts his head until he’s peering at you with these humongous Bambi eyes. “You spanked me and—“

“Go get my skirt.”

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[seyaryminamoto]

I don't know if someone has asked you this but, what do you think was Ozai and Azulon's Relationship like?

I think it’s been asked before? Or maybe not literally? Well, either way… I think it was basically the same as Ozai’s and Zuko’s.

I believe Azulon was an asshole of gigantic proportions. No conscience whatsoever, I think both him and Sozin were the absolute worst of the Royal Family. Some people think otherwise, Ozai is surely just as bad! Well, Azulon is single-handedly, canonically, responsible for around 80-ish years of the 100 Year War. Azulon caused the raids to the South Pole, led most the war against the Earth Kingdom and furthered Sozin’s initial conquest. Azulon was BAD.

Outside of the battlefield, Azulon demanded, after his oledst grandson died and his oldest son was MIA, that one of his two remaining grandchildren be killed, JUST TO PUNISH HIS SON FOR BEING IMPERTINENT.

Let’s just let that sink in, shall we? Ozai’s BS was apparently so awful that, uh, he deserved to lose a son for it, somehow. As if Zuko’s life was utterly, absolutely insignificant for Azulon. Likewise, while Ozai is boasting about Azula’s awesomeness, Azulon shows ZERO response, and why? Because he doesn’t give a shit. He doesn’t give ANY shits about Ozai’s family, not in the least. And while I doubt Ozai would have ever been a saint, chances are he might not have been quite as awful to his own children if his father had been a little less of an asshole towards his branch of the family.

If Azulon cared about someone (and that’s a HUGE if), it was Iroh. It’s the same situation as with Ozai: if Ozai cared about someone, it was Azula. Azulon played favorites just as much as his son did later, and he did it for a longer period of time too: both Ozai and Iroh are fully-grown men and Azulon still displays vastly different treatment for them in a single Throne Room scene. Amongst the touches of brilliance in ATLA, you find gems like these: we only see Azulon ONCE, and that’s enough to understand all these things about him.

Ozai never led any military campaigns, that’s canon. If people want to believe otherwise, that’s on them, but canon-wise? He never did. Iroh, meanwhile, was the Dragon of the West, championing the Siege of Ba Sing Se like a boss because that was the kind of opportunity he was given as Azulon’s Crown Prince. Sounds an awful lot like Zuko being cast off with an impossible mission while Azula is only deployed with a much more plausible mission in mind, and with ALL the resources she may ask for (she gets top-notch firebenders, she gets the train-tank, she gets THE ROYAL BARGE!, she gets to be part of the Drill’s operation too, you name it). Favoritism 101, learned from daddy dearest. 

Soooo… with all this in mind, let’s go into headcanon territory now.

I think Ozai tried to take advantage of being the stay-at-home son, of being the one who probably sat through many important council meetings and such, because Iroh was out in military campaigns and someone had to fill that void. Problem is, he wasn’t nearly as smart or useful as Iroh, so Azulon already didn’t care for him (he had one perfect son as it was, Iroh, and Ozai just wasn’t on that same level), and he cared even less after Ozai didn’t prove to be a valuable asset. And seeing as Ozai likely failed to impress Azulon with insightful ideas on how to conquer the Water Tribes or Earth Kingdom, Azulon simply didn’t think there’d be any worth in sending him out to military campaigns of his own.

It’s canon, by Zuko’s words, that Azulon and Ozai both looked for the Avatar: my guess is Azulon set out on it in a quest for glory, self-imposed, thinking he’d be the greatest of all heroes if he succeeded. And then he failed. And he never got over it.

Fast forward a few years: now his second son is begging for a chance to prove himself, waiting for the opportunity to be useful, and being a general pain in the ass for his horrible father :’D How to get rid of Ozai for a couple of years, how to deflate his eagerness to prove himself? Oh, by giving him an impossible mission! That’s right, just go out there and find the Avatar, Ozai! And the innocent boy, determined to get his father to love him just as he loved Iroh, decided he’d do it. And he failed too.

This, in turn, is why Ozai sends Zuko on the same impossible mission. “You’ll get your honor back when you find the Avatar”, in Ozai’s mind, translated into “You’ll never find the Avatar so this is the perfect way to get rid of you”. It’s kind of the equivalent of “when cows fly” for the Royal Family by now. Zuko just, welp, didn’t get the memo and got lucky that Aang was broken out of the iceberg when he was xD

In any case, back to Azulon and Ozai: after coming home and being utterly defeated by his impossible mission, Azulon can use this failure to validate why he can’t trust Ozai, why Ozai is worthless, you name it. Ozai’s bitterness and hatred for his father increases little by little after this turn of events, and it all builds up into him wanting to get rid of Azulon by the time he proves he won’t EVER allow Ozai to take the throne.

Basically, you’ve never eaten a chocolate bar as bitter as Ozai, and he doesn’t care to measure his actions or do things half-assedly, which is kind of a typical trait of a royal. His resentment towards Azulon increases all the way until he stops at nothing to get rid of him. And Azulon spent all his life looking down on Ozai, underestimating him, expecting him to amount to nothing… so I guess by the time he was dying by his son’s hand (or daughter-in-law’s hand, I mean, really…), he must have really regretted not giving Ozai a more permanent solution instead of just sending him off to find the Avatar.

So yep, I think Azulon and Ozai absolutely abhorred each other, even if Ozai started off by wanting nothing but to please his father. But in due time, things escalated into the worst possible conclusion for the relationship between a father and a son.

The way I see them, their relationship was basically a mirror of Ozai and Zuko’s own. A pretty awful mirror, too. If Zuko failed to find the Avatar, I can’t say anything would have kept Zuko from becoming exactly as bitter as Ozai was: considering the way Zuko behaves when we first meet him (he’s still entitled, arrogant, harsh, cruel, violent, etc.), it’s clear Iroh’s influence and guidance into a nicer path hadn’t been working so far. So unless Iroh just started trying to steer Zuko into a nicer direction as soon as he found the Avatar, it means Zuko wasn’t responding to any of his good influences because he was as obsessed with gaining Ozai’s favor as Ozai was about gaining Azulon’s.

And that’s the horrible sequence of parallels witnessed in three generations of Fire Lords who treated their children like shit and faced the worst possible retribution for it :’D at least, as far as I’m concerned, this is how it went xD