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sweetbunnykook · 4 years

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Only You (9)

Word Count: 13,197 // [SPOILER IN WARNINGS] angst (mention of double homicide, gore/blood, miscarriage, mistreatment of a corpse, panic attack), smut (period sex, cunnilungus, blowjob, throatpie, body worship, mommy kink), brief fluff, toxic relationship, manipulation

Photographer!Jungkook X Noona!Reader

Summary: Jeon Jungkook, your wedding photographer, helps you escape on your big day upon learning about a secret your groom-to-be kept hidden. You soon fall for this young, passionate photographer. However, you underestimated just how much he was willing to reciprocate that love. Maybe, you think, he’s loving you just a little too much.

A/N: If you are still reading this series, I wish you the best of luck. Please leave a review if you can and let me know your thoughts. - 🐰

You were every mother’s blessing – kind, caring, intelligent, obedient. She watched you stumble and fall many times but you manage to catch your footing with a smile. Despite your yearning for independence, your mother kept you in her embrace as all mothers do. In some ways, it would be loving; things like helping you choose the venue for your wedding and holding your hand while you inquire about using chiffon instead of silk for your veil. You were such a wonderful daughter that she didn’t wish for a son even when you decided to carve your own path rather than follow your father’s footsteps into medicine and entrepreneurship.

It’s why your mother sits in the parking lot of your apartment complex, dumbfounded beyond belief, teeth gritted. She looks up at your window to see Jungkook staring back down at her, unable to read him. She holds his steel hard gaze, daring him to look away or pull the curtains close.

He doesn’t take the bait.

Pulling the shifting gear and rolling out of the parking lot, she peels her eyes away and takes several deep breaths.

There is no way on God’s green Earth that you fell in love with a middle-class photographer. Of all people, of all the men in your circle, affluent men coming from money both new and old, you couldn’t have fallen for a lowly photographer who doesn’t care about you enough to know his place and leave you be. How could Jungkook not know that you aren’t meant to live like this? How could he be so selfish as to hope for marriage when he could barely afford the ring he wants to slip onto your finger?

Your mother throws back her head and cackles. The only reason you were able to study abroad during college, the only reason why you could walk into an upscale neighborhood and look like you belong there, is because she followed the natural way. She never loved your father, not even once, but he was a good husband and an even better financial asset. Not only did she not have to lift a finger after tying the knot, but she also became part of the untouchables.

There’s a sense of power and invincibility that comes with wealth. It comes softly, like a whisper of wind that keeps a dandelion intact; it’s invisible to the eyes but she can feel it when she shakes hands with politicians, celebrities, businessmen and women, important people doing important things.

It took nearly twenty years of work. Getting close to the Kims, making sure you attend the same school as their children, running into Namjoon when you visit their vacation home, and letting his parents witness what a great wife you would be for him – it was all going so well. Puberty treated you well enough too that she didn’t need to consider getting you minor cosmetic procedures when you graduated high school. Sure, you could lose a few more pounds, but you were healthy and fit to give the Kims, and her, the grandchildren who will guarantee a new generation of wealth and prosperity. Gone are the days when she could only dream about creating the perfect family, respected by the social circle and the general public. You, her lifelong project, made it all come true.

Yet, life proves to be cruel once again.

As soon as she set her eyes on Yori she knew she was trouble. She didn’t object when you stayed out later and wore a bit more makeup than what was deemed graceful for a woman of your age. She knew that if she’d raised her voice, you would be compelled to rebel (it didn’t help that you were as stubborn and thick-skinned as your father). However, she wanted to warn you, just a tiny bit, that Yori is the kind of girl whose eyes strayed to find a new target and you were a hair away from standing right in the middle of that mark. She knew, because Yori had the kind of eyes she had as a twenty-year-old woman who climbed that very same social ladder.

You were such a good daughter, so intelligent and transparent, that she believed you would have the backbone to come into your mother’s arms at the first sign of danger. It looks like you were just as clueless as the rest of the sheep you called your bridesmaids.

A Jeep honks from the next lane as she swerves into the street and bangs on the steering wheel with the heel of her hand, her Cartier bracelets clanking together in unity. The light turns yellow and she stomps on the accelerator, lurching the vehicle forward.

At the end of the day, she knew it was her fault. She could have warned you earlier, planted seeds of doubt in your mind, even pull Namjoon back into your arms if you realized soon enough; but alas, your day was chosen to be one of desolation and misfortune. Her poor daughter, the apple of her eye, the one precious gem of a person who would propel the family into royalty, whisked right away from under her nose.

She shakes her head, tires screaming as she veers into the next semi-busy lane, watching the sun disappear into the horizon as the familiar roads darken.

Letting you mourn on your own terms was the biggest mistake of her life, second to not following her gut feeling and keeping Yori away from you. She knew about this photographer lover of yours who has the face of an angel and seem to follow you like a puppy wherever you go. From a distance, she’d watched you wrap your arms around him and kiss him with such fervor in a public space she felt bile rise for the first time looking at you – her most precious creation acting like a hussy for all to see.

The boy seemed to be in love with you as much as you depended on him. She waited until you would be sick of him like the ones you took to bed after the wedding night (yes, she knew about your shameful conquests). She waited countless nights, praying that you would come to your senses, that you won’t refuse her advances, until months later she sees you living with him and sharing meals and completely forgetting about her. Yes, she had been mainly focused on making sure the investors haven’t pulled out and that you still had a name for yourself after the wedding. It wasn’t an ideal response as a mother because you needed help and she knew you’d throw a hissy fit but you must understand that while you had been taking men to bed, she had been busting her ass saving what’s left of the family pride.

The Kims also attempted to salvage your reputation, but they won’t do so at the cost of Namjoon’s name. The true reality is that parents will only care for their own blood in the end.

It’s why she finds herself confused and drenched with sweat when the car halts in front of the white villa lined with jasmine bushes. There’s a new gate installed, probably to keep away reporters during the first few weeks after the wedding incident hit the papers, and it momentarily angered her that she must now ask an intercom to enter a space that should have been a gift to you from the Kims.

Her hands tighten around the steering wheel with the intent to squeeze something warm and pulsing. She still remembered the day Yori knelt on the floor of your dressing room and she still remembered the strands of hair that squeezed her fingertips as she tore the whore’s flower hair clip off her head. The yelling, the panic, the uproar, the whispers that came from the guests – it was humiliation to the tenth degree.

Wiping the bead of sweat off her temples with the back of her hand, your mother hushes the engine and places the key in her coat. She steps out of the vehicle and marches up to the gate and buzzes in, huffing when her heels wobble on the cobblestone steps.

A few heartbeats later, Yori’s voice pours through her ears and reached into the crevices of her scalp like a dull headache.

“Hello?”

She leans forward. “It’s me.”

There’s a long pause before the gates click open and the stone stairway up to the front door reveals itself with a moist gleam. The garden sprinklers die down just as she steps onto the platform and makes her way up to the front door where Yori is leaning against, one hand on her stomach, the other hand tucking her fringe away from her face. She notes that the knitted silk dress, tied above the swell of her belly, is from the latest Prada collection.

“What a pleasant surprise,” she smiles. “Come in. Welcome to my home. I apologize for the mess…I had a baby shower earlier today and help is gone for the rest of the week.”

Your mother wanted to rip that smug grin off her face but she kept her eyebrows still and her lips soft.

“Excuse my intrusion.”

She walks into the spacious living room, eyes quickly glancing at the stacks of presents on the couch and the empty bottles of sparkling water and champagne sitting on the coffee table. She can recognize, just from the color of the boxes, that the gifts were not cheap. Had you married Namjoon, this would have been your palace.

“I’m in the middle of decorating the nursery. If you don’t mind…” Yori says, not bothering to look back as she makes her way up the stairs. She didn’t have to turn around to see that steam is coming out of your mother’s ears. “Can you help me with unrolling the mat in the hallway? I can’t bend over very well.”

Your mother trails behind in place of answering, watching Yori’s hip swing side to side as she makes her way up the stairs and then turn to leer down at the older woman. It’s a bit laughable, Yori thinks, as your mother pretends not to ogle at the stacks of Tiffany blue boxes tucked beside the living room couch like shoeboxes. Her face flushes when she meets Yori’s eyes once more but she doesn’t comment as she follows the young woman into the hallway just a few feet away from the stairs. Her head turns at the smell of fresh paint to see the nursery on her left, the door left open as if the room expected her arrival.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

Yori fixes her fringe once more. “He needed to attend a conference in Ginza. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

“There’s no need.” She leers at the stacks of presents next to the crib. More aquamarine boxes, all neatly stacked according to size with the smallest at the top.

The younger woman leans against the tall, heavy vase next to the wall leading into the hallway to the East wing. “If you say so.”

There’s no reason for your mother to be here. It should be you instead, coming back to tie loose ends and perhaps inquire about Namjoon’s injuries if you cared enough. Compared to your mother, you didn’t have much of a backbone when it comes to relationships and it makes it so easy for men to take what they want and go. It’s what made you a bore, what gave Yori the power to pull Namjoon right into her bed and have him calling her name like a prayer.

“Did you forget basic manners?” Your mother finally snaps, beady eyes darting from side to side to admire the nursery that could have been a snapshot from a furniture magazine. “Not even offering a glass of water?”

Yori only smiles, motioning to the unrolled mat slumped against the wall, adjacent from the staircase.

“I assumed whatever you wanted say would be quick as you came uninvited. You’d probably think the water is poisoned even if I offered any way.”

The older woman glances at the rug – no doubt imported from Dubai with its elegant coloring and silk touch – then walks over to it before tracing her fingers around the rolled edges. She shouldn’t have accepted to do such demeaning housework but given how she pulled into the driveway unannounced and that the woman is heavily pregnant with no help around, it was only fair. She may have left behind her patience with Jungkook but not her manners.

“Why did you have to pick that day to tell her?”

Yori’s eyebrows raised just slightly before falling back down to its former position. She puts a hand over her stomach and walks towards the giant vase again, rubbing her fingers over the cool lacquered surface. Namjoon’s parents had a thing for porcelain she just couldn’t wrap her head around.

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you wait until the marriage ceremony to tell her you were screwing her husband?”

“Husband?” She cocks her head to the side with an incredulous widening of her pupils. “Last time I checked he only had a fiancée he rarely saw who ran away with some pretty photographer the first chance she got. I’d say that’s far from married.”

Your mother shakes her head. “Answer the question,” she looks down, chin trembling. The world is falling apart, her dreams are nothing but a pebble in quicksand, and you no longer cared. “Please.”

Yori watches, in a way one watches a fly buzzing around a piece of fruit, the older woman bring her hands together in front of her like it has taken all her energy to ask such a question. Maybe for a moment she considers telling the woman the truth. She considers telling her that you broke her heart first, that you had the world succumbing to your every need, that your mother’s greed doesn’t only belong to her but you too because you made Seokjin your lap dog while Namjoon promised you a future. She considers telling her about the night she saw you laying like a swooning damsel in distress as Seokjin – the only man she had to beg for attention – suckle your tits like you were getting paid for it. She considers telling your mother that her daughter is the two-faced whore here, not her. She considers telling her that you touched what belonged to someone else first.

But what difference would it make? What would it change? The baby is still due in a handful of weeks, Namjoon is set to take over the company once he gets his shit together and his nose heals, and you’re perfectly happy with a new and exciting boyfriend of yours. The truth doesn’t set anyone free, it just makes sure the shackles aren’t too tight.

Yori turns her moist eyes away towards the living room downstairs. She walks over to the railing, resting her wrist on the copper before she stares down at the half-eaten cake on the coffee table with utmost disgust, as if she can still smell the overly sweet frosting with too much blue and pink dye. Catching her voice, she brings the smile back onto her face.

“I picked that day,” she turns her head, just slightly to catch your mother’s expression. “Just because I wanted to watch her look as pathetic as you do now.”

Your mother’s lips part, hands falling to her sides.

“It just happened. That’s all there is to it.”

“That’s…all?”

Yori chuckles, her empty gaze falling back down to the cake. “That’s all.”

Years of planning, years of giving you the best education the country has to offer, years of making sure you never have to suffer as she had, years of shaking hands and kissing the ground the Kims walk on, only for this girl without new or old money to come and…

Before your mother can think, she lunges forward and grabs Yori by the ends of her hair, twisting the locks around her wrist as the younger woman gasps and shrieks. Her swollen stomach hits your mother’s side as she screeches and uses both hands to grab at her taught hair, pulling away to place as much distance she can. The heel of her ankle catches the edge of the first step and she watches the older woman’s eyes widen as she slams, back first, into the steps and then bounce off the next step as her jaw and skull slams into the copper pipe railing. Yori’s stomach hits the corners of the last several steps before the swell of her belly squeezes inwards, the final gurgling scream ripping out of her throat as her vision turns black and the house falls in silence.

It all happened so fast. Your mother watches with her hands over her ears, chest pounding and bracelets clattering as her limbs turn cold and her knees buckle.

Her eyes widen, more and more, as the pool of blood around Yori’s head expands until there lays maroon halo around her crown. She’s lying flat on her stomach and it takes another moment for the trembling woman to realize that, in the silence save for her own labored breathing, the bump is no longer there.

“Oh my god…”

Curling over to the side, your mother’s jaw falls open and the remnants of her early lunch spills over one of Yori’s shoes ledged between the railing and the first step. She empties her stomach until there is nothing left, her knuckles white as she grips the railing for support. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she descends down the staircase, back pressed against the wall and eyes darting from the body to the tinted windows with burgundy curtains tied to the side. When she reaches the body, she trips over Yori’s limp feet as she quickly dashes to the living room to draw the curtains close, her neck craning from side to side as she finds any opening where an imaginary eye might witness the ultimate sin. It was only when she finds herself in the kitchen, washing her hands that she realized she had, in fact, stolen two lives.

Yori, and the baby who never had the chance to see daylight.

…

You’re sitting in a bathroom stall, turning over the small flash drive between your fingers when you hear the clattering of heels against polished tile and the sound of handbags slumping on the counter. One of the women walks into the stall next to yours, undoing the tampon wrapper as if she were scouring for the winning lottery number written on the string.

“Did you see Jin with her again?” The woman outside of the stall says and you recognize her by voice. She works for the accounting department and regularly walks into your office for weekly reports.

“I was keeping an eye of him. It’s annoying that they work together now so he’s always all over her.”

No doubt this conversation is about you.

“Tell me about it. I bet they’re fucking, you saw how he looked at her.”

“Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?” The toilet flushes and you can hear her shrugging her skirt back up to her thighs.

You hear a gasp. “Oh my god, you’re right. It’s that young guy who keep bringing her lunch, right? She didn’t break up with him?”

The stall opens and both women are in front of the counter. You’re stuck in your seat, not knowing whether to kick open the door or to interrupt the conversation but with Seokjin’s flash drive in your clammy hands, you struggle to even breathe.

“They’re still together. Looks like that photographer dick is too good to give up for the office hunk.”

They laugh like hyenas – that high, shrieking kind of laugh that makes their red lipstick bleed onto the corners of their mouths.

“They’re so out of her league. What do they even see in her? She’s painfully average. The only thing she’s got going on is a good wardrobe.”

You keep your head lowered when they walk past your stall as if they could see you. They pull on the paper towel lever until they can rip a generous piece and wipe their hands.

“She’s rich. She’s probably only working here because it keeps her humble or some bullshit like that. You know how girls with daddy’s money are, thinking they’re doing charity for working like the rest of us-”

You don’t hear the rest of their conversation, glad that your face no longer feels hot but you’re angered all the same. Jungkook’s visits, for this reason, had made you nervous in the beginning because you know they’ll talk and come up with their own little villain fantasy about you. It doesn’t bother you as you keep work separate from life (something Jungkook had been interrupting much to your discomfort) but hearing it in person ignited the kind of angry tears that has you cursing at yourself for letting yourself be disturbed by it.

You grab your handbag off the hook, place the flash drive back in your pocket, and unlock the stall before pushing the door open. You wash your hands in haste as the air had become suffocating in the aftermath of the two women. Wiping your wet hands down your black slacks, you let your wavy hair down and let it frame your face to hide your flushed cheeks, making sure that your eyes are no longer moist and your nose isn’t pink. What a way to end a workday.

When you arrive back at the office, most of your coworkers are gone except for the new interns organizing papers for tomorrow and the occasional workaholics making coffee in the makeshift cafeteria. You just hope you won’t run into the two women if they choose to swing by for whatever reason but, thankfully, it was never a common occurrence. They never did above the bare minimum any way.

A sigh of relief leaves your lips when you slump back down your office chair, squeezing your nose bridge as a wave of exhaustion wracks havoc in your pulsing head.

“There are some more sandwiches in the fridge, please help yourself if you’d like.” A student intern says as she carries a crumpled file under one arm, peering from above your divider.

“Oh!” You exclaim, your head darting towards the room Sora left in a mess before turning back to the girl. “Thank you, I’ll help myself. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She gives a short nod before leaving, the glass door squeaking as the office once again is filled with the sound of coffee machines whirring and papers shredding.

The USB flash drive sits heavy in your pocket as you wave goodbye to the last person leaving your department with a cup of coffee. She nods, smiling, and pushes out the heavy glass door and you silently hope she won’t forget to return the mug before leaving the building. You listen to the clacking of her heels fading before turning back to the work computer still logged into your account. The saturated blue screen is harsh on your vision and you find yourself squeezing your eyes shut, turning to look at the clock on the wall momentarily to keep yourself grounded.

Jungkook can call at any minute as your shift is coming to an end.

Maybe it would be easier to do this with your phone turned off but knowing him, he would worry enough to drive over to make sure you’re safe.

Within the gray walls that surround your cubicle, you should feel secure. Yet, some part of you wonders if he would suddenly appear behind you and wrap you in his arms before asking you what you’re up to. In this nightmare of a scenario, you can also feel the antagonizing gaze of the two women.

Looking back down at the USB, you’ve come to realize that you have bigger things to worry about. Some part of you feels just as disgusting as a cheater taking off her ring in the presence of another man.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

You’ve rehearsed the same mantra in your head at least a hundred times within the same hour (before you had the unfortunate chance to overhear that unpleasant conversation) and it sickens you that this is a phrase that Namjoon would have used to justify his time with Yori. It’s a cheater’s mentality – a cowardly way of shifting responsibility away from themselves without considering the consequences when the truth comes to light.

With a sigh, you pull the flash drive out of your pocket and flip the black casing open until the lid hangs off its hinges to reveal the silver end. You look around once more, taking a deep breath, and push the end into the appropriate slot of the system unit. The USB flashes a neon green light, pulsing as it loads, before it dims and a small ping pulls your attention back to the screen.

The file explorer window expands, showing a ZIP file among an array of photos that had you squinting to observe. You jolt straight from the seat as your phone rings. Cursing under your breath as you note an incoming call. You’re just about to turn back to the screen when you recognize that the number flashing across your screen isn’t Jungkook’s but your mother’s. She never called at this time and if she did, she would have texted you first to make sure you weren’t in a meeting.

Just as you reach for the phone, it stops ringing and you contemplate turning it off. But something tells you you should have taken the call. When the phone rings again, causing you to flinch, you let it vibrate twice before swiping across the screen.

In exactly five minutes, you will regret ever picking up the call. In ten minutes, you’re running for your life.

…

Jungkook paces back and forth with his thumb between his teeth. If he bit his nails any shorter, he would pierce through skin. Your voice still rings in his ear as you cry into the phone, your tires screaming through the speaker as you speed through the streets back to the apartment. He’s sick with worry, wondering if you crashed into a tree of if you decided – on a whim – to handle this situation yourself. Because you called him immediately after you left work, he has a feeling you wouldn’t do anything stupid but today has been especially unpredictable.

First, your mother coming to meet him. Second, the same woman pushing Yori down the stairs and threatening you to take care of it. If he’d heard you correctly, the old wench even mentioned she would make his life a living hell if you don’t head over immediately. Some mother you are. It pisses him off to no end that you had to live with her for half of your life but it makes him even more upset that you’ve been hiding your mother’s behavior, throwing excuses about how much she worries when she’d call in the mornings and leave voicemails that you delete without listening.

He changes into a pair of jeans and an old university sweatshirt that is a bit too tight on the cuffs. When he hears the sound of your heels clack on the other side of the door, he barely had the time to wrap his head around such a God-given opportunity.

As soon as the door swings open you’re falling into his arms, wracked with sobs as he engulfs your entire torso in his arms. He presses your head further below his neck, reaching behind you to grab his coat off the hanger and wrap it around you before kicking the door close in case a neighbor passes by. You can’t bear to lift your head, trembling as your teeth chatter and your pupils are wide with fear. He’s never seen you like this – not even during the wedding night – and it makes his insides squeeze as if someone had reached in him and pressed a hand against his organs.

“I-I don’t know w-” you sob, “I don’t know w-what to do. I can’t breathe. Jungkook-”

He hushes you softly, threading his fingers through your hair with his thumbs curling around your ear. He tilts your head up towards his gaze, watching your tears trail down your face and onto the coat. Between gasps, you’re wailing, your throat tightened to the point that even his name sounds like nails on chalkboard on your lips.

“Noona, you have to breathe for me. Inhale,” he brings air into his nostrils as demonstration, “and exhale. Can you do that for me?”

You nod, swallowing first before you mimic and close your eyes. Jungkook brings a hand up to your chest, digging underneath the coat to feel it pounding against your ribcage.

“Keep breathing, noona. It’s going to be okay, keep breathing.” He rubs his warm palm over the chiffon and you find yourself leaning your forehead against his chest in exhaustion.

You wish you could stay in his embrace forever. Locked inside this warm and unassuming apartment, away from your mother, away from the past that has now resurfaced in the worst way imaginable – you wish you can curl into his arms and never leave. That…or you just want the world to swallow you in a deep well and leave you to starve.

“We have to tell the police.” You tremble. You can’t imagine the repercussions, not to mention the heartache of seeing your mother behind bars. She’d rather hang herself than end up in prison, you know that much. You’d sworn to your father before his passing that you’d keep her safe and you’re already thinking of running away.

“Noona…”

“We do. We…I have to. I-I mean it was an accident,” you’re suddenly peeling yourself away from him, bringing your hands up to rub your face. “They’ll give her m-maybe three or four years at most, right? If it was an accident it won’t be…”

Jungkook comes up behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders and rubbing up and down. You’re shaking again, tears streaming even quicker than before and the nausea is causing you to falter from side to side.

“Kookie, I don’t know what to do. Please tell me what to do, I’m going crazy. I don’t know what to do.”

He places his forehead against the crown of your head, staring into the distance. You feel his fingers tighten around your arm before he’s wrapping his arms around your shoulders and resting his weight upon your collarbones.

“Do you trust me, noona?” He whispers.

The fridge hums in the distance. You nod.

“Yes…I trust you. With my life.”

When he doesn’t reply, you turn your body, slowly, as if you were anticipating a monster and not a man, until you can look up at his face. He’s rubs his thumbs over your tears and moves down to your chapped lips, swollen and pink from your incessant gnawing. Your lips part just slightly as you exhale, keeping your eyes locked onto his loving eyes. He looks so angelic under the kitchen lights, the yellow bulbs blurred by the moisture in your eyes to form a halo around his long fringe. His hair is parted in the middle to form a curtain around his structured face, casting a shadow over his eyes in the semi-darkness. You can’t see him clearly with the lights behind him but you can sense his confidence, his reassuring grip on your cheeks; he’s no longer the boy from the night before but a man who is willing to keep the promise he made to you.

“I can help you.” He whispers softly once more, his voice lowered. “If you take me to the body…I can help you, noona.”

He holds your gaze, his thumbs still rubbing softly over your cheeks as if to coax the words into your skin. The implication isn’t lost on you but your body reacts first, fingers shaking as a fresh wave of sweat prickles down your back.

“W-What do you…” you trail off as your breathing grows heavy. Jungkook puts a hand on your chest once more as he did before, rubbing softly over your chest to calm your pounding heart.

He holds you close, breathing in your skin once more as his own eyes sting with unshed tears. Fate is a terrible thing and for every moment of bliss with you, he must pay the price; except, this price is a new opportunity to secure you by his side and earn your mother’s silent approval. It’s okay, Jungkook thinks, he can do this for you. He has the resources, the will, the strength, the plans – the only thing he can’t predict is your mental well-being in the aftermath.

Will you lose respect for him? Will you still love him? One thing he was sure of was that this was the only chance to keep your mother from arranging a marriage partner for you. He must go through it to not only save your sanity, your mother, but your answer when he puts one knee on the ground and opens the velvet box he keeps on top of the fridge for the perfect time. Oh how the universe responded so quickly to the day’s worries.

“Back then…when you said you would…”

Kill

“…You would do that for me. You really meant it, baby?”

Jungkook brings your head back under his chin and keeps you there, rocking from side to side as if to lull you to sleep.

“I meant every word. I’m not afraid, noona, not if it means I can protect you and your family.” His eyes darken as he tangles his fingers into your hair, twirling the ends of your waves between his fingers. “You love me, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Then I need you to listen to me.”

With great reluctance, he pulls you away and holds your palm in both of his larger hands. Your eyes are closed, whether from fatigue or concentration he doesn’t know until your brows scrunch when he speaks.

“Call your mother when I tell you to and tell her you’re on your way over. If she asks why you didn’t answer her previous calls, tell her you had an emergency at work. Reassure her and make sure she doesn’t touch anything more than she’s probably already touched by now. Don’t mention that I’m coming with you, understand? She might panic and bring attention to herself if there’s any witnesses.”

You nod continuously, creating a mental checklist. Call, inform, excuse, reassure, move.

“And noona?”

You look back up into his eyes.

“You…you won’t hate me after tonight…would you?”

How could you fathom it? With his warm, sincere stare and willingness to walk to the ends of earth for someone as plain and unlovable as you, you should be on your knees worshipping him. You don’t understand how he can think of you hating him when he had so willingly put his entire life at risk without reluctance. You aren’t asking him to fetch a forgotten carton of milk at the corner store. You’re asking him to clean up the mess your mother made, a mess that can tear your entire world apart, a mess that has nothing to do with your boyfriend who has no boundaries to prove his devotion.

You shake your head. “I could never,” you breathe.

You hold him this time, letting his body bow towards your trembling figure as he breathes in the scent of sweat and perfume on your neck. You give him a moment of peace. You wanted him to remember this touch as after this night is over, you don’t know if you’ll be the same person. You don’t know if he’ll be either.

He goes over the plan once more and leads you to his car. When Jungkook straps you into the passenger seat and turns the ignition key, you curl your fingers around your shaking knees. He notices your anxiety and takes the closest hand in his before letting your palm rest over the gear shift. He places his own hand on top of yours, gripping tightly when he shifts and maneuvers the car out of the parking lot and onto the road before unclenching.

The sky is pitch black and the moon stalks from behind. You count every tree, read every sign, tense at every sign of a police car passing by, and sniffle when your burning eyes refuse to calm. You don’t register where you are until Jungkook lets go of your hand on the shifting gear and undo his seatbelt. You’re inside the garage of his studio, surrounded by wires, cardboard boxes, plastic bins, and office supplies. When you grasp his arm, letting out a small cry, he hushes you instantly, bringing your hand up to his lips to place a tender kiss on your knuckles.

“I’ll be quick, noona. I just need to get some things, okay? I’ll be right there-” he points to the very back of the car – “in view.”

You swallow, nodding before uncurling your grip from his arm.

It takes every ounce of self-restraint for Jungkook not to coo at your desperation. He missed this dependency of yours (he had only seen it during the wedding night and the necklace argument) and for once he wonders if he went a bit too far with his role as the sweet and needy boyfriend. He’s not acting in a way that he doesn’t want to but he is guilty of dramatizing some of his pleas and affectionate touches. He knows, in his head, that he is a man. He’s stronger, taller, capable of committing a crime and not just cleaning its aftermath, and will eventually be the father of your children. He’ll tug his collar open to expose his vulnerabilities, but he will show you his strength too. Tonight is a blessing from the universe that will, finally, keep you where you belong: at his side, looking at him, and needing only him.

You watch as Jungkook swings open the trunk of his car and load three large plastic bins and pile photography equipment – tripods, developer fluids, camera bags, lighting equipment, and even a small monitor. And then you see the last box of supplies: rope, black plastic bags, gloves, masks, bleach, towels, and tape. When his eyes meet yours, he flashes you a small smile between his labored breaths, the kind you’re used to seeing after you make love to him and he’s spent, sprawled on the sheets with an arm over his perspired forehead. The car jolts slightly as pushes the back door shut and hop back into the driver seat, adjusting the temperature in the car, muttering something under his breath, and latching his seat belt back on.

He keeps both hands on the wheel. “Noona…make the call now.”

You’re frozen, hands clasped together on your lap.

“Kookie…”

You’re having doubts. He can see it in the way you can’t even bear to look at him. He digs through your pocket and presses your cell phone on your lap. When the lockscreen awakens to the photo of you two, you feel your heart anchor to the bottom of your stomach.

“I-I can’t do it.” You shake your head. “We have to go to the police. I can’t live without you, I can’t live without mom, we’ll get caught and I-” You press your hands to your face, your hoarse sobs lodged deep in your throat before it rips from your chest in the kind of wailing that makes Jungkook’s own heart squeeze. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this to Yori either e-even if it means my family…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

He sees himself in you. He sees himself as the teen boy who let Taehyung drag his scalpel across his father, then his mother, before encouraging him to give it a try. You’re a virgin. Even if tonight worked out perfectly according to his plans, you’d still be a crime virgin. It was your mother who pushed Yori, not you. Knowing how empathetic you are, how tender you are, it might as well be you who pushed the woman down the stairs. He knows your fear all too well and he knows just how quick your hummingbird heartbeat is underneath his coat that you’re wearing. You’re just like him.

“You’re beautiful, noona.” He places a palm over your clasped hands and brings his other hand up to your face, tucking your hair behind your ears and strumming your cheeks with the back of his fingers.

“No one deserves your kindness. It fucking upsets me,” he swallows, allowing his eyes to water, “that even a mother will take advantage of that kindness.”

You sob into his hand, leaning your temple against the head rest. He’s right. How many times have your mother, before Jungkook came into your life, morphed you into something you’re not? The days you spent trying to please her, comparing yourself to other children she would complement to get a reaction out of you, letting yourself be a pawn for when she wanted something from your father that either required money or the right handshake. You still love her above all because she’s your mother but there’s no denying how much it still touches every part of your life from your relationships to your career. Moving away from her and letting her fade into the background was a true feat and it pains you that all that effort crumbled away and you’re left in a bigger mess to clean than before. If only you hadn’t taken the fucking call.

Maybe this was your fault. Maybe, if you hadn’t been such a hard-headed person, she would never had driven over to Yori’s place and none of this wouldn’t have happened. You wouldn’t have to get Jungkook involved either, as willing as he is.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Jungkook slouches back into his seat, putting his hands back onto the steering wheel. “Don’t you, noona?”

You nod, keeping your head lowered.

“Then be good for me and call. I’ll take care of you and I’ll take care of everything else. I’ve never broken that promise, not now, not ever.”

Jungkook hopes that’ll work. He’s rather annoyed but not at you, never at you. Why couldn’t she tumble down those stairs too instead of giving you such unnecessary stress? This kind of stain would be terrible for the baby had you been pregnant. It’s tearing him apart watching how different you are now compared to this morning, leaving the apartment in comfort only to come falling into his arms in tears. He came to the conclusion that you’re simply too pure for the world.

Oh how romantic tonight would be if you were honest with yourself all along. Claiming to loathe your mother with the strength of a thousand suns only to act like this when she shows up with baggage. Jungkook can’t blame you for you shared a majority of your life with the wench, but he finds it exasperating that you can’t see how little of your pity people like her deserve. Nevertheless, you wouldn’t be the love of his life if you weren’t so sensitive and caring.

It was with great relief that you mustered the courage to swipe across the phone screen and type your mother’s number.

He clicks open the garage door and the vehicle begins to descend down the elevated lot.

“M-mom? I’m on my way now…c-can you tell me where you are? It’ll be okay…I know mom, I-I’ll be there soon…”

…

You feel eerily calm as Jungkook drives past your mother’s car parked in the front of the gate to circle around the perimeter of the fence. He doesn’t recognize the new gate but he’d climbed over the old ones many times to watch you on the balcony. The metal may have changed but the level of security should be the same given that the villas are built a good distance apart between trees and the residents – people with mostly new money – keep to themselves. Lodged between a large tree and a partial opening in the back gate that is no doubt left ajar by your mother, Jungkook step out of the vehicle and press the door close before coming over to your side.

He’s relieved that you’re no longer in tears but your hands are still freezing cold despite the heat turned to the max inside. Your eyes are wandering and your breaths are labored as you press your body close to Jungkook’s.

Your mother is waiting near the door, her head poking out just slightly in the darkness and you can see the familiar row of bracelets on her wrist. She seems to have aged several years in just the last few months and the reason for her demise is standing next to you.

“Are you insane?” She seethes as she pulls you by the arm into the dark house and keep her eyes on Jungkook whose gaze bore into her skull. “How could you bring another-”

Jungkook barely had the time to secure your grip on his arm when you gasp, flinching back to hit the chess table next to where he’s standing when you see Yori’s pale arm stretched out from beneath a mat. The deep crimson shade of blood had congealed on the marble, partially smudged by the mat above her weighing her corpse down. Deep inside you had hoped that at least the baby could be saved, by some miracle, but the damage is far too great. Accident or not, a police officer finding this scene would not consider a light sentence if you mother decided to confess.

The older woman’s jaw is clenched, no doubt suppressing the panic she too feels hammering inside her as you hang off of Jungkook arm, trembling still. She looks up to your boyfriend and finds herself jolting awake when his eyes are peering down at her. He looks kind, sympathetic, soft, as if he is still sitting across her on your couch, eager to prove that he can be the son-in-law she’s been looking for all along.

“You should head home for the night. I’ll handle the rest.”

She scratches at her bracelets, her nails tugging the gold free from her skin. “B-But…where are you taking her? Anyone will find it if she’s buried in the yard.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer the question.

“Please go home and make sure there are no witnesses. I know you didn’t inform anyone before coming here,” he turns his head towards the body, “so go home as if you were never here. I promise I’ll take care of it.”

It’s evident the older woman is relieved by the way her shoulders slump but her gaze is still firm as she measures her trust into the young man who is in full control of your heart. Your eyes are still on the body when your mother takes your hands in hers and gives a squeeze.

“Sweetheart…” she croaks. She knew she gave birth to such a dependable, obedient daughter. You’re every mother’s dream and she makes a mental note to come back to your apartment with more boxes of food and perhaps make amends. There are far too many misunderstandings and miscommunication; it’s no way for a mother and child to live.

However, when you rip your hands away and take Jungkook’s hand in yours, her face crumbles.

“I don’t ever want to see you again.” You hiss, your voice straining. You’ve never spoken to her like this and didn’t think about doing so until you saw the body, the mess your boyfriend has to clean. “You did this to us.”

“Wh-”

“Leave me alone. Please, mom. Get out of here, okay?” Your eyes glisten and you wipe away the droplets before they have the chance to fall. “It’s…we’re putting our lives on the line for you. It’s the least you can do now…so please…”

Between your pleas and Jungkook’s silence, your mother bites the inside of her cheek from saying anything more and turns back the way you came in. You watch her figure recede into the darkness, her shoes clacking softly on the cobblestone path. She turns back to look at you before the door closes and for once, you earn the most genuine apology you’ve ever received and this time she didn’t even need to open her mouth.

When the door falls back into place, Jungkook gives your shoulders a comforting rub and leads you towards the staircase, reminding you to breathe. He feels a bit more relieved that your mother didn’t raise too much of a ruckus. How could she when he’s the one getting his hands dirty? It’s what the perfect son-in-law will do and after this night is over, he’ll no longer have doubts about her approval. She wouldn’t have a valid argument anyway – not when he had just proved that he’s willing to go to the ends of Earth for your family and stability.

You’re too cute, Jungkook thinks, as you breathe through your nose and exhale through your lips. You’re a mirror image of his virgin self coated in blood, panicked but euphoric, angered but more than relieved to be rid of the parasites that kept him in the sewers.

“H-how are we going to do this?” You breathe, looking up the stairs as if you were expecting Namjoon to be standing there.

“I’ll handle the body. You can help me wipe down the stairs, okay?”

And handle it he did. He first fetched the supplies from the car, making sure once more that there are no witnesses while also keeping you within sight. Even without a severe puncture wound, Yori made quite a mess.

The terror didn’t come from seeing your former friend of years lay in a puddle of her own secretions. Nor did it come from seeing how calm and collected your boyfriend is peering down at the body with something akin to annoyance. No, terror came from how easily your mind and body adapted to helping Jungkook. You had no more tears left to shed when he lifted the mat from the body and placed a plastic covering next to her before rolling her body onto it. The sheet rustles beneath her weight and the stench of iron and urine fills your nostrils, prompting you to place your gloved hand over your nose.

Jungkook seems to know just what to do. He orders for you to wipe the railings first, which you do so with the slowness of a snail climbing a brick wall. The smell of bleach kept the nausea at bay and prompted you to focus on the smaller tasks because you can feel your heart already beginning to race with the sound of your boyfriend dragging Yori by the feet to straighten her posture. When you risked a glance back, you catch yourself feeling irked by the way Jungkook places her fingers so tenderly on her flattened stomach. Even when he’s wearing gloves, you catch yourself glaring at his touch on her skin, at the way his fingers brush over the ring on her finger. It makes you clench your jaw harder, pour more bleach onto the staircase, and wipe down each step with vigor.

She’s dead, she can’t take him from you.

You spray the bleach onto the top step, scrubbing with the heel of your palm as your shoulder fights through aches and pressure. You can do this. If Jungkook kept his promise, you must too. You will never find another man who will devote his entire life to you and for that you must not be too forgiving to those who don’t deserve your kindness, not this time.

All your life it’s one person after another coming to take what they want and leave. This is your lesson to finally take yourself back from them all, to come to terms with how much you gave and how little you received, see that Jungkook was the catalyst you desperately needed. It was no coincidence that when the elevator doors opened that very night of your wedding, he was the person standing in front of you. He was meant to be there holding your shoes as he rescues you away from those who would eventually suck the life out of you. He’s not someone you should be afraid of – no – because he’s your savior.

When you turn back again, Jungkook is slipping Yori’s legs into a large, black plastic bag identical to the one she’s laying on. He uses the bag beneath her to fight friction as he slides her body forward, careful not to bend her body before the duct tape comes into play.

And suddenly, your shoulder doesn’t ache anymore. Your heartbeat slows as you take another deep breath, this time through your lips, and watch his shoulders hunch over and forearm veins protrude.

“Kookie?”

He looks up, hair damp with sweat as it falls over his eyes. The lights from the front lawn, as it filter through dark maroon curtains, casts a red glow on your lover’s skin. When he meets your eyes he’s filled with glee, seeing that you’re no longer panicking and your eyes are clouded with a kind of protective apathy that lets him know you’ve gotten stronger. You’re dipping a toe into his world.

“Yes, noona?” He huffs, straightening his spine and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

“Nothing will happen to us after tonight…right?”

He physically melts at your saccharine voice. You’re worried about him, about whether he’ll still want you after this and if he’ll want you forever. “Of course not, noona. Are you feeling okay? Do you need to rest?” He asks if he hadn’t been the one packing the corpse into a bag.

You shake your head with a sniffle. “…I’m fine.” You’re not sure what to say, so you rub the cleaning cloth between your fingers and shy away from his eyes. “J just wanted to hear you say that.”

A smile spreads across his face, slow but bright as if he had just heard the most amazing thing. You can’t smile back and instead focus back on the floors and the last few inches of the railing.

You make sure to wipe the decorations nearby, in case your mother left any fingerprints on the lacquered surfaces. She can be rather careless in dire situations. You’re lifting yourself off the floor when something catches your eye: a large crib with layers and layers of blankets and fuzzy cloud and star plushies.

“What kind of bedtime stories should we tell our kids?”

Namjoon puts his head on your lap, sighing in relief when his neck is elevated at just the right position to depressurize the knot.

“What about myths? About the constellations and such.”

You giggle, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Isn’t that a little too mature for babies?”

When he doesn’t answer, you wave you hand in front of his eyes. He squints, chuckling. So this is what marriage life is going to be like – he can get used to it. “You’re right, that is a bit too much. Then…hm…they’ll learn about the types of clouds in the sky and we can go from there.”

“Joonie, I love you, but don’t come crying when our kids prefer mama’s stories over papa’s boring myths and random science facts.”

“We’ll see when we get to that point. Either way, you’re stuck with me.”

Asshole.

A fucking good-for-nothing lying asshole.

Gifting the same toys he promised to give to your future children to the same bitch who ruined your life, your family, and your sanity; they deserved each other, you think, and they both deserve to disappear as if they had never existed. The unborn baby inside Yori is innocent but a part of you is elated that he’ll never experience the kind of fatherhood he wanted. You silently wished Namjoon would tumble down the very same staircase you cleaned and joined Yori in a happy couple’s embrace to…

“Kookie?” You call out to your boyfriend who had duct taped the body in a semi-mummified state and used a shibari knot with his jute rope for easy carrying. He’d dragged the body next to the railing and leaned it against one of the stair planks in an upright position so that after he inspects the house for any evidence, he can bring the corpse easily over his shoulder.

“Yes, noona?”

“Where are we going to bury her?”

Jungkook wets his lips. He can’t possibly tell you the process of disposing a body or else you’ll surely fall back into panic so he gives you the simplest answer he can. “I’ll have to keep her body in the freezer in my studio. I’ll look for a place to burn it soon.”

You nod, swallowing as your throat tightens uncomfortably once more. The waves of anxiety come and goes. Jungkook knows how you’re feeling all too well and he wishes he could just hold you in your arms until tomorrow comes. Much to his distain, he knows you’re partly living your fantasy of making Yori pay for her involvement with Namjoon. You no longer love the man but anyone in your shoes wouldn’t deny there is a sense of satisfaction in seeking vengeance after a lifetime of humiliation that dampened your reputation in both your personal and professional sphere. Jungkook prays that getting rid of Yori will eliminate your mind of their presence although he highly doubts it; you’re not always rainbows and flowers. It’s only natural for you to be curious about taking another life when anger consumes logic. Most of these thoughts are fleeting ,which is why you had surprised Jungkook by your composure. He expected screaming at the very least but all you could do was cry.

He understands.

After he watched the life drain out of his parents, Taehyung had watched him cry for the longest time and when the next day came, it was like the world had turned its back while he washed the blood off his hands. The anxiety was terrible – at least for the first month or two – and then it was as if nothing had happened.

Like he learned before and like you’re learning now, it didn’t take much to get rid of a person. Over time, it just became muscle memory, kind of like making your morning coffee half-asleep. Now that you’ve gotten your first taste of the power, he wonders how you’ll cope. Will you fall into despair and regret it all in the morning? Will you be hungry for more? How will you return his most tiresome display of affection? These are questions he can’t answer. But what he does know is that you finally understand what love is in his world.

Love isn’t just about a ring on the finger or a baby in the crib. Love has to hurt. It has to infest your dreams and turn them into nightmares, wreak havoc on your heart, rip off the magnet in your moral compass. It’s why the human heart is caged behind ribs – it can hardly be tamed.

…

As the car lurches behind trees and between unpaved roads, Jungkook notifies your mother about what to do next. It would not raise suspicion for her to leave the country for a few weeks, especially since she had been traveling to speak to investors abroad. It would take some of the burden off his shoulders too; your mother is a cunning woman who fears losing money more than losing you so he had no trouble alluding to her demise if she disobeys. While you look away, he quickly sends a notification to Jimin to make sure the older man will take care of the rest. When he receives an immediate response back, his shoulders slump in relief and he pockets the phone back into his jeans.

When he takes your hand in his again, the other gripping the wheel, you give him the smallest of smiles through the silence.

Three is a crowd. The body folded and hidden in the rear space between his photography equipment makes your head turn every now and then to make sure it doesn’t escape somehow. You’re exhausted beyond belief but Jungkook is here, his palm over your hand on the shifting gear once more, to keep you grounded. The night feels like it might go on forever.

The streets pass by in a blur – nightlife still alive and pulsing with neon signs – and there’s a kind of peace enclosed in the car that you can’t find anywhere else. It’s the comfort in knowing that Jungkook has always been and will always be there for you. Whether to take you from somewhere or bring you to some place, he’s the only person in your life left that you could depend on. As he expertly drives through tight alleyways where gas station surveillance cameras can’t reach him, you’re dozing off with your head against the window.

“We’re almost there.” He says while running his thumb over your knuckles. There’s blood on his shirt and your neck but you’re too tired to care.

You awaken with a gasp when Jungkook swings the door open; he had been careful not to wake you but you feel enough residual adrenaline to jolt awake at the smallest of sounds. It takes a moment for you to recognize the inside of his garage, the bright LED lightbulb hanging above causing you to squint as your eyes adjust.

Unaware that you’re awake, Jungkook quickly moves to the rear of the car and swing Yori’s body over his shoulders, tightening the ropes around where her neck and feet are to secure his grip. He carries the wrapped body towards the door next to the shelves and kicks it open to reveal several more stocked shelves before coming to a halt at the buzzing freezer. With a free hand, he lifts the lid open and removes several bags of seafood and miscellaneous food items you can’t quite make out before rolling the body inside the interior. He places the bags on top of the body and latches the freezer shut, securing it with a combination lock from one of his bins.

When he steps back and shut the storage door before turning, he’s surprised to see you standing in the doorway, your hair a mess, his coat hanging loose off one shoulder.

“Do you remember the night after you took my engagement photos? The ones at that same house?”

His brows scrunch slightly in confusion as he nods. There’s a noticeable flush on your cheeks as you breath in and out from your lips, a puff forming in the chill of the garage. You’re half-asleep, the exhaustion resting well deep in your bones but you can’t bring yourself to find your way towards his bed.

“I left my bedroom door open for you. I-I watched you from the balcony and waited for you to come back.”

Jungkook’s lips part, something foreign stirring in his stomach as the coat weighs down your shoulders and you don’t stop it from sliding down your arms, letting it pool around your feet. You don’t know why you wanted to confess but it felt right. It felt right to confess to something that isn’t about being an accessory in a crime.

“Why didn’t you say anything, noona?”

You close the distance, putting both of your hands on his chest, over the blood stains on the university sweatshirt. He exhales loudly when you bring him down to your level by a tug of his collar, your lips just a mere centimeter apart.

“Because I wanted you then just as much as I want you now.”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to close the gap between your lips, slamming your body onto the car behind you as he brings one of your legs over his waist to press himself against your heat. Your fingers curl around the nape of his neck and he listens to your squeal as he lifts you fully off the ground and lets you wrap both your legs around him this time. You break the kiss and pepper sweet kisses over the mole on his neck and the smears of dried blood that caked onto his sweatshirt.

“I love you so much,” you whisper, moving your head to the other side of his neck to suckle on his warm skin and feel his pulse through the jugular.

Jungkook quickly throws open the door to the studio and steps into the darkness, his memory allowing him to lead you towards the bathroom without his eyes adjusting. Your eyes burn once more when he reaches behind you to shut the bathroom door close and turn on the yellowed lights with the back of his elbow. When your face comes into view, he sits you on the counter next to the sink and pushes his tongue back in your mouth, your name leaving his lips with a whimper.

He’s terribly hard against your thighs, his length straining through his jeans. You tug him forward by the belt as you break the kiss once more and let him rip open your blood and bleach-stained blouse.

“God, you’re so beautiful, noona. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

He moans as you press the heel of your feet up his erection, his voice muffled by skin filling his mouth as he takes the top your left breast spilling from the brassiere on his tongue. You arch to chase the heat of his tongue, back of your head leaning on the mirror behind.

“My good boy…such a good boy…”

The effect your praise has on him is immediate. Jungkook reaches behind his neck and pulls the sweatshirt over his head, ruffling his hair in the process. You watch him unbuckle and tug his belt free from the hoops before unclasping the front of his jeans. Impatient, he circles his arms around you to undo the brassiere, leaning down to kiss the indents on your skin as you slip your blouse off your shoulders and pull the straps down your arms. The coolness of the counter causes a hiss to leave your lips and Jungkook drinks in your state of orgasmic delirium like an aphrodisiac.

It’s a blessing for you to have worn a less difficult pair of pants to shimmy out of. With a short tug, Jungkook slides the waistband of your wool slacks and cotton panties down your ankles. When he pauses, chest rising and falling steadily, you follow his gaze to see a streak of blood in the middle of the light pink fabric.

In the time between your mother’s call and your boyfriend dumping your former best friend’s body in a freezer, your period makes an early appearance. The streak of blood is bright and vibrant, unlike Yori’s blood that oxidized into a deep maroon shade on his tanned skin. Jungkook tugs your pants down your ankles but takes your panties into one hand, his doe eyes coming to rest on the blood before something snaps within him.

He throws the fabric on the floor and hooks his arms beneath your shin, prompting you to gasp as he spreads your thighs apart. He stares down at your dark pubic hair before tracing two fingers up your slit and into the curls. His fingers reappear with your blood, seeping underneath his short nails and the crevices of his nailbed.

“Can I taste you, noona?” He breathes, chest rising and falling even faster. His cheeks are flaming red, the flush reaching his earlobes as his lips part for more air. He feels like he can’t breathe, seeing how beautiful, fertile, and red you are for him.

You’re hesitant, the blood reminding you of what you just done – what he just done – yet the burning in your belly proves that you want this just as much as he does. You barely had the chance to nod before Jungkook pushes his face into your pussy, his tongue lapping the blood on your vulva and clit as his nose buries in your trimmed curls. You taste metallic, as if he’s sucking on a penny, but it’s light and the syrupy texture allows him to take all of your juices in his mouth. When his tongue draws circles around your clit and he presses his lips around the nub like a suction, your fingers immediately grasp his hair from the roots, begging his tongue to fuck your weeping pussy.

Jungkook laps your folds like a starving puppy until you’re arching for him once more, thighs trapping his head where it belongs as your cum gushes out of you with traces with red. Between your blood and your juices, he can’t decide which one tastes better. The metallic tang disappears, leaving a fragrant aftertaste that he can only indulge when he inhales through his nose after swallowing what remains on his teeth. When your knees twitch, Jungkook pulls back to come up for air, watching your expression as your eyes fall to his wet crimson lips, the mess reaching his chin and jaw.

It takes a minute for you to gather yourself together and in your exhaustion a slow but soft smile reaches your lips.

“Does it taste good, baby?”

“Heavenly,” he whispers as he traps your body between his arms and gives you a taste, twisting his tongue deep inside your warm mouth. Your hands stroke the contours of his biceps and triceps, core aching as he groans when you lick your remainings from his chin.

You can tell he’s tired, having to do most of the manual labor. He winces as you knead his shoulders and it makes your chest ache. Even when he’s hurting, he takes care of you first. Your precious boy.

“Turn on the shower for me.”

Jungkook is aching to be inside you but he obeys, turning away to step inside the shower and twist the silver handle lodged into the tile. You stand behind him, moving away just slightly when the water – steadily turning hot – sprays over his hair and onto your breasts. Just as he’s about to turn around you circle your arms around his waist and reach into his jeans, palming his throbbing cock before pulling his jeans and briefs down his ankles. He steps out of the tight fabric, watching the remnants of Yori’s blood spiral down the drain as you kick the fabric in front of his toes.

The shower hose is harsh on his head but he can’t seem to pull away, one arm holding onto the wall for purchase, when you cushion your knees with his wet, blood-stained jeans. He can’t get any harder watching water drip from the ends of his hair down to your erect nipples, sliding down between the valley of your breasts and onto your soft stomach.

You’re delighted to see his cock twitch, taking your bottom lip under your teeth as you look up at him.

“You want mommy to take care of you, Kookie?”

He nods, exhaling as his abdomen clenches.

“You want to cum all over mommy’s tits, yeah? Make me proud?”

“Unng…” He moans in response, hips bucking forward to slide his leaking tip across your lips. He whimpers when you pull away, your smile twisting when his stomach clenches again.

You massage his firm thighs, gliding over every ripple of his muscles and over to the patch of pubic hair above his cock. When you pass your hands over his belly button, you stretch a palm up towards his face.

“Spit.”

The mole beneath his lips appear as he gathers as much saliva as he can produce on his tongue and spits into your palm. There are some traces of blood in your palm but you pay no attention to it as you place your saliva-coated palm over his cock and make a fist around the length.

“Mo-mmy,” he throws his head back, the shower head coming down his flushed pecs. Your fist begins to move slow but tight around his hardness. “It feels so good. Fuck…unng, mommy…please…”

Jungkook can cum just from your warm breath hitting his leaking tip but he doesn’t. When you lean forward and take his entire length in your mouth, tongue stretched as far as you can as you press your nose against his pubes, his jaw drops. You’re warm, wet, and fuck, so tight.

His other hand combs through your hair, reaching underneath the nape to pull your head back until your half-lidded eyes can watch his skin glisten.

With your hands back on his thighs, Jungkook expects you to move. What he doesn’t expect was you to tighten your throat before swallowing with his entire length in your mouth.

“Fuck!”

You gag around him but repeats, breathing through your nose before letting your whimpers and cries vibrate his cock. He’s about to lose it, his tightening grip causing your scalp to burn.

“You’re so pretty, mommy,” he pulls his length back just slightly to let you suction him back inside. When his entire length is warm and pulsing in the back of your throat, you swallow once more and begin moving up and down, your eyes closing as Jungkook backs your head to the tile and fucks your mouth at a steady pace.

“Wanna cum in your throat, all over you, inside you. God, you’re so perfect.” He chants, abdomen clenching when your throat tightens just right over his pink tip.

You hum, hands trailing behind his thighs and up to his firm cheeks to push him forward. His grip tightens once more when he whimpers your name, over and over again, his cock driving into your mouth with a vigor that’s bound to leave your throat sore in the morning.

The first spurt of his warm cum hits your uvula and you cough just as he slides out of your mouth and pumps himself into his fist. Watching his creamy cum dripping down the corner of his mouth intensifies his high, prompting him to burst onto your shoulder blades and over your wet breasts. He doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath before he pushes you down onto the tile, moving away the wet jeans to a corner before finding safety between your legs. His arms, on either side of your head, allows him to prop himself up to lead his tip towards your entrance.

He’d forgotten all about cleaning the blood on your neck when you’re spread for him, your hands cupping his face in admiration. Your eyes and nose are still puffy and red, but he knows the blush on your cheeks come from your need to have him deep inside until you can feel him against your cervix.

“I love you, noona. So, so much.”

You hiss slightly when he pushes inside, your snug velvet walls engulfing his cock and keeping him where he belongs. His body bows in servitude to the goddess that is you.

“I love you too,” you huff, brushing your fingers over his sculped cheekbones and mandible. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You let him take you there despite how painful it was to bear him pounding into your walls with the intent to ruin. You’re not sure how long you lay on the tile, how many times he came inside, how sore and painful your insides will be when he’s done. It was never-ending – how Jungkook muffles your wails and whines, how he pumps his cocks while pressing your shoulders down to bury himself deep, how exhausted you are by the time he’s pushing his cum back into your swollen hole. The last orgasm triggers tears to seep from the corner of his eyes which Jungkook kisses away as he reaches up to the shower cloth and waits for you to fall limp before running the soapy cloth along your body.

You’re freezing cold despite the hot water still coming down onto your boyfriend’s body and, from there, onto you. He’s quick to clean you up and wrap you in the same towel he had laid over you the first time you used his studio shower. You can barely move as he carries you to the bed and lays your damp body on the fresh linen. You can hear the sound of him ripping open a thin menstrual pad and placing it in a pair of fresh panties he fished from the shared armoire closet. He slips the panties up your legs, lifting your hips to pull the fabric over your buttocks, flashing his usual charming grin when you murmur a thank you.

He pulls the towel from your body and squeeze out as much water as he can from your long tresses, careful not to tug. It wasn’t ideal to him that you’ll be sleeping with wet hair but you’re beyond exhausted and, to be frank, he is as well. At least he’s heading to bed satiated.

Jungkook slides under the blankets and brings your body closer by your waist. He groans into your neck, his body immediately softening as the warmth of your skin and the blanket brings him the peace and comfort he craved.

“Kookie?”

“Hm?”

It takes a heartbeat for him to sense your sudden anxiety. “…I’m scared.”

“Why are you scared?” He manages to ask although sleep is weighing heavy on his eyelids.

“I don’t know.” You murmur.

Jungkook is too tired to remember if you said anything afterwards for he falls deep into slumber. As for you, your head won’t let you sleep despite your body pleading for rest. Every part of you can feel Yori’s heavy body in the freezer just several feet away. You’re not sure how you’re supposed to feel about tonight or if tonight should have happened in the first place but in Jungkook’s arms, you can’t find the smallest ounce of pity for the woman.

You close your eyes, snuggle closer into his firm chest, and try your best to pretend nothing will change. You try to forget the flash drive sitting in your bag, the possible evidence your mother may have left behind in the villa, the corpse in the garage. Most of all, you try to forget how Jungkook looked at the bottom of the staircase, slipping the corpse inside the black plastic trash bag with such ease that makes you wonder if he had done this before. He surely must have, that voice inside of your head says but you wave it away.

I don’t know.

You lied to him. For the first time in your relationship, you lied without guilt. You do know why you’re scared and it’s not because after tonight every knock on the door will cause your heart to pound.

No. It’s because you know your boyfriend – your sweet, loving boyfriend who cries watching romantic comedies on Sundays – is truly capable of murder.

#bunny:fic #yandere bts #yandere fanfiction #bts fanfiction #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bangtan fanfiction #bangtan angst #bangtan smut #jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #bts smut #only you #chapter 9 #I did not follow the outline I made for this chapter LOL this was an unpredictable chapter even to me

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mittensmorgul · 4 years

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it’s been six days since i watched 15.19 and i will never be over this

for Chuck, the ultimate punishment, the worst thing they could do to him-- far worse than instant death-- was to render him utterly powerless. he’d cosplayed as a human for a very long time, superficially exploring his creation while retaining complete control over it. a snap of his fingers could still alter reality (he gave himself the ability to play music, he experimented with human relationships and still utterly failed to grasp the concepts of human joy and love and care). he did all of this while still fundamentally seeing his own creation as a playground for him to dominate, and the beings he’d created with with the ability to love and choose for themselves were merely his personal playthings. every instance of lucifer referring to humanity as chuck’s “toys” was spot on, all along.

and now that he is human himself, it’s irrelevant if he ever grows into this realization for himself. he’s been rendered entirely superfluous to the narrative he’d sought to control and eventually obliterate on a whim. sure, we can hope that he will grow to see the beauty and wonder and potential joy and love that humans are capable of, but it doesn’t matter. if he does, then good for him. if not, we are the bodily incarnation of the shrug emoji. that’s his problem now, basically. it’s the ending he deserved.

but for cas-- the ONE element of the story that he could never fully eliminate or bend to his will, the SINGLE incarnation of this character across all his universes to simply fail to do what he was told and bugger off back to heaven with the rest of the mindless angels-- cas is the SINGLE angel who actually fell in love with humanity. he’s the one who let humanity change him, because of the love he saw in dean winchester-- a man who spent the last 15 seasons believing he was broken, poison, nothing more than a weapon or a killer, who ruined everything he touched including this angel.

love never ruined anything, hon.

cas has been dipping his toes into humanity since his first season on the show. he’s been blowing apart the doorways to doubt, feeling more and more human emotions despite repeated attempts to program that humanity out of him and restore him to proper angelic obedience. and because of the love he began to understand only after he did fully fall and become human, when he had to give up his humanity because of necessity to save the world yet again, in an act he deemed “barbaric” and only chose because he felt he had no other choice, he’s never felt that was a viable option for him to choose again, for himself.

he’s needed to be “prepared” to go to war at every turn. there’s never been a time when he felt he could lay that magical armor and sense of duty to the universe of being an angel down. it’s... horrifying, actually. knowing that he carries so much love, and the one thing he wants he feels he can never have, because instead he would have to choose to sacrifice any chance of it to be ready at all times to pick up his arms again and fling himself in front of the cosmic bullets the universe kept firing at them. he held on to it all as a shield-- both for his own fear of his feelings not being reciprocated from dean because we have been told over and over for years that angels are like “marble statues” and are incapable of true human feelings (and even in more mundane ways like how cas mourned the flavor of pb&j once his grace was restored... nothing really hit the same, like the grace itself was a shield in the same way cas described dean’s demonhood as a shield that protected him from feeling his feelings), but in a very literal way cas used his grace to shield dean from danger, ready to stand between dean and death at every turn, regardless of the consequences, and regardless of how DEAN would react to losing him. Some sacrifices just aren’t worth surviving, you know? which dean proved out to us in early s13... and which cas has no IDEA about...

but back to the point...

in a post-chuck world, where TFW’s sacrifices of raising jack to believe in the beauty of creation and the power of human love and joy and wonder and beauty and balance have restored the natural order and changed the entire stakes of the game from saving the world to saving themselves and finally having total freedom to make their own choices in life without a risk-reward calculation on whether they can save the universe from the current round of existential threat imposed on them by a malicious god, is there any other logical choice that cas would make than to finally be able to lay his shield down? there’s nothing more to fight for, except themselves and the love they’d never felt was possible.

for chuck, humanity was the ultimate punishment. but for cas, the angel who broke the mold, it would be the ultimate reward.

and for all of us humans down here in the muck who chuck would’ve just as soon seen stomped back into the mud for the rest of eternity? i don’t think there could be any greater affirmation of OUR humanity and the validity and power of our own lives, our own love, and our own choices than demonstrating that humanity itself isn’t and should never be a punishment to anyone who truly loves.

this is my story, and i’m sticking with it.

#spn s15 spoilers #spn 15.19 #spn 15.20 #spn s15 speculation #castiel winchester #any ending that doesn't frame cas as choosing humanity is effectively dead to me #i just can't accept that one of the final messages of a show that's been about human love and free will and the value of those things #would be NAH BEING HUMAN IS SHIT AND A PUNISHMENT AND 'DEMEANING' because that's just gross #i hope they don't legit make me pull this out after tomorrow night to burn the whole ending down with... but i'm prepared anyway

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stop-workplace-bullies · 3 years

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Bystanders are those who witness bullying and/or online bullying happening yet don’t do anything to stop it, if you are are going through this, please let me know, I have been through this and I want to help you! You are not alone!

So called “friends” shouldn’t be part of the problem, they should be part of the SOLUTION! Remember, no act of kindness, however small, is ever wasted.

You’ve been hurt by a narcissist maybe it’s a partner, maybe it’s someone you thought was your friend, maybe it a boss or coworkers and you want to hurt them back. That’s understandable.

You want to turn the tables and beat them at their own game. You want to piss them off, get your revenge, and break them like they tried to break you.

It is unlikely that any narcissist will ever be able to heal their own hurts and grow beyond the ego-driven person they have become.

But your hurts are not beyond healing. You may not go back to being the person you were before you encountered your narcissist, but you have the power and means to grow into someone new.

That, ultimately, is the best way to hurt a narcissist – by removing all traces of their abuse from you, by being the kind of person they simply cannot be.

Go in peace.

Narcissists will never:

1. Exist in reality. Narcissists are delusional and in denial about reality, itself, and bend or rewrite the truth and/or occurrences to fit what they “believe” to be true about you, themselves, or the world. They are a walking self-fulfilling prophecy, minus the fulfillment of anything valuable. Enemies, paranoia, hatred, contempt, sadistically cruel torment. They create a false illusion for their targets that looks like the opposite of those things, accompanied by impossible expectations. They will never get that reality could never be as perfect as the picture they wish to paint, to themselves and everyone else. About themselves and everyone else, regardless of whether it is positive or negative. Nothing is definitive or impenetrable, except them, ah perfection

2. Perceive you as your own individual, separate from themselves or their delusions of grandeur. They can never accept that you have every right to your individuality, to your mind, to your choices. They will never accept that you are allowed to make mistakes, to make decisions that conflict with who they want you to be. They simply can not control their complusion to not only rewrite the scene repetitively, but alter the characters in unrealistic ways, without so much as their knowledge, let alone permission. How frusturating that their projector screens move continuously away from them, only to be lost somewhere in the trees. They will never see people as anything more than objects to assist in meeting their own needs. They deny the elements of themselves that result in projection, and therefore, will never comprehend it is not the responsibility of everyone else, nor is what they deny about themselves present in everyone else, alone. They can not conceive that their own needs are in fact an oxymoron, a catch 22, due the fact that even meeting them, negates their ultimate need, of needing no one. They will never stop throwing people away when they are inevitably broken, by them, after being bent and twisted in so many unimaginable ways. They just start over and do it again, breaking another model, going to the store, buying a new one, breaking another model, going to the store, buying a new one. They will never understand the “breaking process" is caused by them, and unnecessary, because they are starting from a premise that doesn't allow for or jive with humanity. Being human, they simply can not relate to what that entails, even in regard to themselves

3. Prioritize the needs of someone else over their own wants, and instead they will call you “selfish" for ever having any of your own. You could have been there for them 100 times, but they will act overwhelmed and inconvenienced, even offended, the first time you ever ask for reciprocity. You can explain it until you're blue in the face, but lacking empathy, it will never resonate. With some, the thing that they want could be for your needs to never be fulfilled, as many of them are so riddled with envy and vengeance, that they become filled with utter joy when witnessing you suffering/struggling. They will offer to leave you hanging, they will support as a way to eventually sabotage, they will leave you in your times of need, capitalize on an opportunity to kick you while you are down, and they will never care about you, beyond how you serve them, and will gladly destroy that too, if it means hurting you

4. Empathize. It makes no difference if it is a bad day, break up, jobloss, lawsuit, illness, death in the family, concerns with your child, past trauma, or crime that you are referring to — they will be noticeably absent, coldly ignore you, or become visibly aggitated when you attempt to talk to them about it. They are allowed to talk about and go on and on about anything, but it's time for YOU to “let go" and “move on.” You are never allowed to be upset, sick, mad, sad, grieving, or fearful in the presence of a Narcissist, and they will proclaim that you are “weak" for ever experiencing experiences

5. Validate your feelings, or allow you to be the victim of anything. It must always be them. They compete with your abuse. If they're capable of showing any empathy, it is towards your abusers. They will defend people that they do not even know, such as your parent or an ex, just to minimize how you feel. Any story you tell will be rewritten as your fault, even if it clearly isnt. “You should've known,” “you should've left,” “I just don't get it,” “I would have,” “Couldn't have been me..” …They invalidate everything you have to say, and make it appear as if you overreact all the time. They will never stop minimizing and mocking the very things that they can not bare to face. No matter what you've been through, they've been through worse, or other people have it worse, and you are simply “ungrateful" or “ too sensitive," for expecting them to ever understand your position, no matter how many times you attempt to get them to understand. Strangely, they will simultaneously expect you to feel sorry for them/aid them, in the exact same thing that you weren't allowed to be upset about (sometimes, completely fabricated after learning what moves you)

6. Validate your point of view, intellect, or argument, nevermind if it is your career, special interest, gift, merely a recollection of your own life experiences, or an opinion. It will be wrong, unless they can rewrite the conversation and pretend as if it came from them, then it is right. Someone else could say the exact same thing, and it will suddenly be valid. It is only wrong if it is coming from you, and will feel as if you must “prove" what you know to be true. They discredit everything about you for the sake of doing so

7. Ask you to directly do something for them — they will simply prey on your empathy and guilt you by continuously bringing it up. That way, they can say that they “never asked,” and that “you offered.” Additionally, they will never say thank you — it is just too awkward for them, being the type that “hates asking,” who “isn't use to" being the one to have anything done for them

8. Allow you to comfortably say “no.” This, out of several other manipulation tactics, seems to be a focal point, in regard to people saying you should have “better boundaries.” You should say no unapologetically, for the record. Yet with Narcissists, you will not really recognize the correlation between “saying no" and “being punished,” as it is occuring. It is difficult to “say no,” or anything, in regard to what is never actually asked of you. It is more like, agreeing to “be there,” for someone who has pretended to do so for you, or without the awareness that being there for them will later conflict with being there, for yourself, or your kids, or your health. They just keep turning it up, until you are inevitably forced to choose

9. Be honest in regard to their “past.” Deep, heartfelt admissions are later denied and erased. You will actually have no idea whether or not their “trauma" actually happened or whether it was yet another mockery, of you. They have no problem lying about sexual or violent abuse. They really do seem to drift between abuser and abused in their stories, and many times, when re-telling the same exact stories, the roles will have all changed, and you will wonder why you ever felt sorry for them in the first place. The truth doesn't change

10. Reciprocate any good deeds, favors done, or money spent, even when promised. If they do, it will be heavily communicated, usually passive aggressively, that it is a major inconvenience for them, and you will regret even asking. They will call you up the next day to ask what you would've done without them, when you would never even think to do that to them. Everything that they do comes with a price, but for the most part, they know that they have no intention on delivering at the time they are selling you a dream, “future-faking,” and when you point it out or finally demand something in return, they will say that you are “throwing it in their face,” being insensitive regarding what they have going on, or “shouldn't have done it, then" “I didn't make you,” “I don't owe you,” “I just won't ask you anymore, if you're keeping score,” …

11. Congratulate you on any accomplishment or success. They will devalue it immediately, finding fault in it for no reason, giving an unsolicited negative opinion, or endlessly talking about the time they did or had similar. They are incapable of being happy for other people. It is not simply that they are jealous and “wish" they could have what you have, it is that they can only feel validated, by comparing and contrasting your failure, with their power. They would show more emotion watching you lose it, than they did when you got it. They really, truly, will never stop praying for your downfall

12. Demonstrate loyalty to anyone other than themselves. They are incapable of “having someone's back,” unless it is merely for show. They are all fake, two-faced, and backstabbing, if it serves their interest in the moment, yet in the next moment, they will deny or downplay their own commentary, if that happens to serve their interest, instead. Most of them trash-talk their own family, friends, supporters, and flying monkeys to no end, yet later expect the opinion of these individuals to be what apparently, aids in discrediting you

13. Communicate effectively. They purposely create conflict in communication by either refusing to engage (ignoring your texts/calls), or when you do talk to them, endlessly editing/notating your thoughts as you go along, correcting, interrupting, and cutting you off. They avoid conversations that are not solely centered around feeding their ego, they reroute the conversation when you begin to talk about yourself, always, they will not respond if you agree with or stand up for the antagonist in their story, and finally, they will abruptly end conversations if you dare to point anything in terms of an error about themselves, to them. To reach mutual understanding, resolve conflicts, or even offer support/compliments to a Narcissist? Forget it. Even when it is positive, they somehow turn it negative, because it's coming from you

14. Celebrate you or your kids' birthday, or even holidays, without creating a problem to become the center of attention. For whatever reason, they notoriously ruin special dates, speculated as a way to simply memorialize your suffering. You will again, become the bad guy, for ever expecting it to be about you

15. Adhere to their own expectations. They are great at telling everyone else what to do and how to behave, but it is a replacement and a distraction for what they fail to do, and how they fail to behave. They are the ultimate hypocrite, both as individuals and in regard to the engagement. What you are not “allowed" to do, they and others are, what they do to you, would be considered unacceptable, if done back

16. Apologize sincerely. It will always be with the intention of simply erasing the act, while continuing on with the same, or worse. The apology itself will not reflect real ownership, and instead they will play dumb and proclaim they never “meant" to inflict any harm or pain. If their apology does not breed the intended result, they will circle back to recant it. Even if it does breed the intended result, they will make you pay immensely for making them relinquish their pride, by apologizing. Gotta level the scoreboard, again

17. Take real accountability for their actions. They do not have empathy for how what they have done has made you feel, nor remorse for your expressed feelings being hurt, or the impact the engagement has had on your life. They, and you, will instead, be disregarded and discarded. They genuinely do not see themselves as the problem, but instead, see you as the problem, for speaking about the problem. As a result, they will never regret hurting you, but will instead, invent reasoning for being justified in doing so. Rather than ever seeing their own behavior for what it is, they will resolve that you knew, you stayed, you allowed it, you deserved it, you're making it up, you're dumb, you're naive, you're too this or that, you're the Narcissist, you need to move on and let it go, you need to deny and ignore abuse, like them

18. Acknowledge your existence once they are done using you for whatever purpose you served, unless it is to circle back to gauge whether or not you can be used, again. Uhhh, they will never admit to using you. Manipulators do not manipulate just to throw their hands up in the end and say, “you got me.” Your closest form of admittance is their behavior once they discover you are no longer “useful.” It will be as if you never knew them, and suddenly, the “bond" you shared evaporates into thin air. The clock has struck twelve, the fairytale has come to an end

19. Leave you alone. Whether it is sending their flying monkeys, spying, stalking, “smearing" you, utilizing social media for passive aggression, or “hoovering” more directly, they never stop finding new and creative ways to attempt to hurt you. They will center their entire life around, spend massive amounts of money on, and devote incredibly unusual amounts of energy to, enact revenge for the things that they did. They never move on. They never forgive. If they can't forgive those responsible, what makes you think that they will forgive you?

20. They will never change. When toxic people can no longer control you, they will try to control how others see you. The misinformation will feel unfair, but stay above it, trusting that people who are your true friends will see the truth....just like you did

#mental health #education #health & fitness #workplace bullying #business #workplace #books & libraries #mobbing #administrator #human trafficking #covert narcissism #actually narcissistic #narcissistic

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misterbitches · 3 years

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i live in a universe where if i were to walk down the street i could get murdered willy nilly cos im black but men are out here going around being like “my boyfriend and i met when he was a junior in high school” i don’t believe in jail and i try not to make jail jokes but HOW IS THAT FAIR? JAIL!!! GUILLOTINE!!!! GET THIS MAN A RETIREMENT FUND AND A THERAPIST

that dialogue was fucking embarrassing. he shoulda just said “im 12 yrs older than him” no one needs to know u were 30 dating a 17 year old u insecure freak. retire bitch and get away from her

i wanted muren so badly to be like “LMAO SRY didnt mean to seem surprised i just like men my own age i guess?” i wouldnt have even apologized if i was surprised. my friend was dating someone ten yrs younger than him and i made fun of him for it and he was like “i know” bc he does know.

just a tip: i don’t like getting hit on by men way older than me, a lot of people don’t. i’ve had men who are 36 interested in me when i was 23, and i reciprocated, but now as i am 29 and older i realize how much it confused me and how i didn’t like it.

age gaps are what they are. ther’es many times i do not like it especially if it is a pattern (this is what happens in tv shows and movies and the opposite of that isn’t gay age gaps or power imbalances or women much older than a younger man ok that’s not progress it’s just peopl ewanting to be like cis men and no one wants that) and esp if the person’s peers are all their ages. people seem to forget that we travel in the same social circles on purpose due to our environments and also our world experiences. the only way to meet an older man is outside of school and yet adults can’t seem to control themselves?

i saw this person who was one of the editors of sexual hegemony (a book on capitalism and homophobic laws and sex basically idk google it it’s interesting) and he was trying to have a foucultian outlook (i hate focault btw doesn’t mean what he says wasnt interesting but it does mean i am not okay with psychosexual philosophers who take advantage of people. the only testament against him having reltaions with younger people is a bunch of young people i nfucking tunisia and there’s an excuse that he wasn’t a fucking pedophile he was those ebebebbeopopopo people and it doesnt matter when ur in fucking tunisia as a white french algerian fucking preying on children) how age of consent laws desexualize younger people. they were passed for abunch of reasons like any law but here is the thing

we have no business in being in spaces to determine children’s sexual identity and teenagers in their own realm. THEY need to figure it out. our job as adults is to PROTECT THEM full stop. not intrude on their lfe and not give them the tools to decide for themselves. age of consent laws are meant to protect not to facilitate children against some boogeyman of sex. the issue is the way our society views it but young people are sexual AS YOUNG PEOPLE. it has NOTHING to do with adults and it shouldn’t. that’s why it is extra fucking intrusive when you are literally wedged into someone’s life who you have no business being around. it’s only by fucking circumstance. it’s abysmal and not cute.

what this tells me is that the age gap is salacious. not in the way that i was 23 and a man was 36. in the way that he was 17 and this dude was 29. that’s interesting right? it’s “oooh” and it means we shouldn’t balk at it. saying 12 years would have sufficed, raises some eyebrows, and we can figure out the dynamics after but you just had to put that in BECAUSE YOU FUCKING LIKE IT but the thing is there’s no part of it that was fun. i’m just going to assume you like fucking teenagers bc that’s what it’s telling me lmao

i rarely talk about this couple but to put them in my eyeballs and then have that stupid conversation it was insulting lmao god please get a fucking script supervisor fuck but none of them care about sotry or any of what i fucking laid out. how stupid and careless and just unfun. i don’t like it. also ew at the idea of 2 tops and 2 bottoms talking oh my god i am gonna give myself a heart attack i’m already so fucking anxious i have to see my family lemme chill

im 29 and feel bad having a crush on a 23 year old CELEBRITY ok and i SHOULD feel ashamed and it’s not even a big deal that’s how everyone should approach life tbqh u walk around like ur 100 yrs old to avoid children. oh what’s that this korean cebrity learned english and moved to america to start a family with me and i find him very hot and i like his voice but we’re 6 years apart i’m not sure if i would work (how fun of a drama would that be. pointless and ridiculous. i love it.)

oh there’s a great review on CMBYN and its history and how the isolation and seeclusion was so fuckign capitalist bougie patriarchy and yea idk if anyone is interested. i think it’s ironic the ending for the people in CMBYN irl bc it’s just. so indicative of this shit. i dont like guadignino (idk is that how u spell his name) and think he’s not a great....person or director (i love the look of suspiria tho likke visually and edited. the DP was thai btw! he did an amazing job!!!) but it critiques this film from a perspective of someone who clearly at least cares about artistry, no matter how poorly i think he executes it, and just how hollow it is. the thing about “escapism” is that it relies on the harsh realities of the world to make it opposite, everything has context, nothing is apolitical. to make something that exists in a vacuum is negligent and it doesn’t help you escape it makes you even more tied to this world and its flaws because it doesn’t do anything to mitigate it.

people view it as like “we can put something stupid on screen and people have to accept it in this world” but that isn’t how IT WORKS. you hvae to build up the stakes of the world. but i can’t see introducing some “taboo” (see: stupid) elements and pretending the escapism is seeing this and allowing it. how could it be when the problem is the nature of the rship itself? what world are you taking us to? and why does this world ignore the pressing realities? and i wouldnt say either of these are explicit escapism (i think i hate that word now) becuase um they arent. this fantastical generally rich people escapism isn’t about bending things that don’t work to mold it into our society because WE DO THAT ALREADY it’s about taking those things and twisting them to something we can accept and like or something that has real consequences for people. it’s so funny how marketing and the idea of pc culture and shit and conservative ideology seeps into these. they have an explicit interest in holding the status quou of taking advantage of people and using their power; age is a huge structure to do so. in this society when we struggle why would its existence not be challenged? because rape, ridiculous rships, abusive rships, torture etc is a power move, conservatives rest on it and people who gain power. what about that is appealing? making it gay? well, no. especially because men DO have power.

every fucking thing in BL is a reflection of of patriarchy honestly. i can admit that and i’m not okay with it but it’s consumption. there’s a way to make this decent or entertaining without it being so fucking poorly done. and atp i dont even want to call things bl it’s a tv show just bc it’s for a certain audience doesnt mean anything do better idiots

#i am soooooo #history 4 #history 4: close to you #history 3 #history 3: make our days count

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adelindschade · 4 years

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Inspired by THIS scene and how much Cece & Schmidt (New Girl) remind of Anthony & Kate in a modern sense (waggles fingers to Bridgerton & Sons AU plotted and published for all to cherish by @newtonsheffield)

I just had to write. How else is a girl to celebrate her two days off?? Enjoy the shenanigans. Script was slightly tweaked. 1,930 word count!

A STIFF SITUATION (KATE X ANTHONY EDITION)

He wished he had opened his eyes when Anthony heard the very sharp click of the door handle turn. He would’ve anticipated who if he only spied sooner the figure crossing the panel of glass. Unfortunately, he prided his lids open too late, and he went rigid with the worst kind of anxiety.

Don’t be his brother. Don’t be his brother.

A fitted jogger suit came into view. Slimming. Stunning.

A curtain of hair wisped from shoulder to shoulder – long and dark and tied up into a ponytail, like a perfect waterfall.

Thank God.

Kate.

“Oh my God!”

He couldn’t help himself. It was a guttural reaction.

The groan was much louder than he anticipated, prompting her to pause under the arch with the most perplexed expression.

It was kind of cute, especially when no words came out of her mouth despite it being ajar.

“Are you serious right now?” He exasperated.

She blinked.

He continued before she could interject, more so to acquit himself than anything.

“How is it you still look this good under fluorescent lights?”

“I’m so, so sorry,” she began to pour out, a mix of panic and remorse. It didn’t suit her, he thought with furrowed brows. That wasn’t his Kate.

She had all but pushed the rolling divider that separated them to the wall in her haste to meet his side. “This is all my fault!”

Just as she took in his bedridden form cloaked with an unbecoming hospital gown, her big brown eyes descended to the cast of shame. The brazen baby blue ice pack atop it was another insult. He tried to suppress a wince as she herself paused mid-sentence.

“I thought-” she had just begun before her eyes settled. Her face contorted into heavy confusion. “What happened?” She asked, more sternly than before.

“Yeah,” he stammered, unable to form words. He had yet to master a reply despite having all morning to formulate something. He swallowed but it sounded by a grunt. “Um,” he prolonged, “here’s the thing… Um, this is embarrassing…”

The words were evading him and looking up at her inquisitive expression did little to help. God, how was it she looked this good, this cute, and also simultaneously this gorgeous all at once after jogging in summer heat?

He tried to talk with his hands, palm out but even then, his message fell flat. She was not impressed and hiked a brow. His lips were reluctantly to take over.

“I broke my penis.”

Really, the placement of the cast should have implied as much.

Honestly, the woman was designed to torture him. Both physical and mentally. First, she broke it, and now she was making him voice it aloud. He felt humiliated. And also, oddly beguiled. It should be a badge of honor for someone to ride a dick so hard for it to break.

And she hadn’t even been there to witness the aftermath.

He thought it was a mere cramp. They took a break. She didn’t press the matter further. They slept it off. She left the bed early for her ritual morning jog – how the woman had energy left was beyond his comprehension. The moment he rose, as did his dick, he felt the agony that came – no pun intended – and no sooner did it begin, he foolishly called Benedict to assist him to the nearest hospital since he didn’t want Kate to see him in such disarray.

“You… what…?”

Dear God, she was going to make him repeat it! As if neither believed it in the first place.

“I broke my penis,” he stated more clearly, agitated with the whole fiasco. Why was he placating her part in this? He wasn’t the one that purposely bent it at an unnatural angle!

“Things were just out of control last night,” he explained – even though she was there! Her memory was just as fresh as his! He shouldn’t be the one doing the talking!

“And there was like, this one moment, where it was just…” he rambled both in words and ambiguous hands signs, “I woke up this morning with blinding pain; another moment I was watching myself, remembering last night. I think I finally understand what the tree of life is about.”

She was huffing, looking up and around, just as finished with the situation as he was. That was the Kate he knew – the sarcastic, expressive, and glowing woman he knew and loved. It was an art she could still look so radiant under just unflattering light and miffed with frustration.

“I can’t be certain of this but I’m almost positive your vagina contains a right angle,” he dared to speak into existence, looking at her dead in the eyes.

Anthony was not above Vagina-Blaming.

“I’m leaving,” she declared with a glare. Her arms crossed – damn her – unintentionally lifting the national treasures he considered her breasts. “I can’t believe I came-”

He was speaking over her in protest.

She was leaving. Her back was to him.

“How are you upset right now?”

God – he knew he was in for it given the velocity of her ponytail when it swung back to the other shoulder. Her eyes bore into his, lips curled into a scowl.

“Kate, you did this! What do you want from me?

“I didn’t think this would happen! I don’t want this to be a thing…” she waved between them. He nearly lurched forward; brow raised in disbelief as a swell of reactionary rage began to bubble.

Only, he realized, while Kate’s eyes were on him, she kept gesturing to his castor-padded shaft. She deflated and her voice softened uncharacteristically. “Because” she exhaled, “I like you. A lot. ”

Her head shook, distracted by the tacky tile pattern underneath them. She was comprehending her own words. A betraying smile fixed itself onto her lovely features, however brief it may have been. He saw it – it was there – even if she masked it with a stern line no sooner did it appear. “I can’t just always say what I feel…. It’s just, whatever, Anthony.”

She hid her expressive eyes by looking sideways, purposely avoiding the connection between them. Her words were weak and her posture anxious, shifting from one foot to the another. Always moving, he thought fondly. His Kate was never one to stay still.

“You like me,” he repeated with an unapologetic grin. She loved him. Her loved her. They both knew it. Yet, neither were willing to speak it first. Fortunately, both were happy to set such a slight aside, knowing the truth between them, no matter if silent.

Was it he who made the first move? Likely. Or Kate – she was spontaneous like that.

Either way, he wasn’t complaining when their lips met and skipped passed the gentle delicacies that usually came after a quarrel. Mouth open and tongues in happy collusion, Anthony was quite pleased to revisit where they had last left.

Her hair was just as perfect and silky as he remembered when it wrapped it around his hand and pulled her deeper into their . Her hand on his chest for purchase, striking an electric sensation within him.

A crack disrupted the ambience of the lover’s reunion. A loud, unsettling stiff crack and then the jolting, sharp pain that followed within seconds. Blinding, burning, terrible pain!

He hadn’t even registered how hard her pushed her away but he registered the volume of their combined shouts as he jolted upwards, rigid as humanly possible. His eyes squeezed shut, still processing the intense discomfort that was as sharp as the first.

The pained whine that escaped his throat was too embarrassing for him to admit. Thank the Heaven’s she was the only one to bear witness to such an emasculate scene. She was nearly as rigid as he, coiled defensively in surprise when she took him in.

His voice cracked in between the segment of uncharacteristically high-pitched agony, verifying his worst reality.

His hand slapped the uncomfortable hospital bed in protest simultaneously as she apprehensively poached the question “what happened?”

It was his turn to look away, averting his face to the uninhabited side of the room, and his eyes remained squeezed shut for dear life. His knees were arched and his hands curled into the plastic sheets beneath him.

“Oh my God, why?” he protested, regaining some edge in his voice.

Her hands were up in the air as if surrendering. Her eyes scanned over his form, unsure of what to do next.

“Oh!” he fumbled. His hand jetted out and then returned to his hair, combing his back while his body arched instinctively. The pain reverberated and all he could muster was wide, panicked eyes and mouth agape, hoping no more unsettling sounds flushed out.

“Uh…” she chewed over, “what…?”

Her hands crossed and then one rose to her lips for her to anxiously bite at an immaculately polished nail. Then another until both hands concealed her mouth but her eyes were vivid with shock and worry.

“Oh my God, my penis is having a heart attack,” he grumbled back. His hand propelled outwards, halting her from coming closer. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! You got to get out of here!”

“Alright,” she fluttered about, slow to turn back around. Both of her hands reciprocated the gesture, as if to hold herself at bay until her feet could shuffle the other direction. Purse – where’s her purse? Big, black purse – can’t miss it– ah! There!

He wasn’t sure what words he was trying to verbalize. It was all a stuttered mess until she began to bend down to grab her oversized bag near the door.

Then his reaction was visceral.

“Don’t bend over!”

She nearly jumped out of her skin and looked at him, aghast.

“For crying out loud,” he lamented, averting his eyes to the ceiling. “Are you nuts?” He tried his best to blink the image away. Her pert little ass – not really, not little – ugh, forget it! But he couldn’t!

Thankfully, her hefty purse consumed the upper half of her body, concealing her blessed breasts.

“I’m sorry,” he cracked apologetically. His eyes were pleading. “It’s the yoga pants!”

She was awkwardly shifting from the room to the hallway, weaving in and out as she scrambled to retreat.

“I’m sorry for this,” she rushed out the words until her entire body was outside his room. Still, her head poked through, and then pass by the glass where her words were still quite clear. “I like you!” she tried to end on a good note, offering a smile through the pane.

“I like you, too, so much,” he assured, however gravel and pain he sounded. She was still peeking through the glass, optimistic and glowing and loving…

“Call a nurse!” he pleaded aloud, leaning outwards to project his voice. “A male nurse! Probably a heavy-set male nurse would be nice!”

She was contorting her body awkwardly to muster a wave, not quite ready to depart. The bag was still in her arms, obstructing her chest. God Bless her. He never thought he’d say such a thing regarding her heavenly bosom but now was not the time.

“Bye,” her muffled voice sang sweetly from afar.

He was lurching more outwardly now, to the point of yelling.

“Describe it to them as like uh… as uh…battered highway cone!” He pushed out hurriedly once she was out of frame.

He leaned back, eyes squeezed and body tight. He winced multiple times in a row. He uttered another unbecoming groan, flinching as he verbalized just sounds of peak discomfort.

#this scene was peak comedy #I had to write my take on it #kathony #kanthony #Bridgerton and sons #modern bridgerton #Bridgerton au #THERE ARE SO MANY TAGS TO ACCOUNT FOR #Kate sheffield #Kate sharma #btw cece is perfect representation of peak Kate energy #Anthony bridgerton #drabble #mine #fanfiction

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naitiaclo960writings · 4 years

Text

Day 14 - Fun & Games

The evening was already well advanced when Dean decided to turn off his computer and take a break from his essay. That last year at engineering degree was starting to give him a hard time and, frankly, he was looking forward to graduating and being hired somewhere. Hopefully, he would find a job in the same city and not have to look for another apartment.

It’s been 3 years since he shared a place with his best friend Castiel and things suited him perfectly like they were. Castiel had already been in the active life for two years, working as a heritage officer at the Kansas City Museum, but sharing the rent of their apartment was a relief for everyone. Moreover, they had now settled into a comfortable routine that gave rhythm to their lives in the most pleasant way. Most often, they would invite friends on Friday nights and spend an evening together over a beer. Saturday was reserved for a video game night where Castiel often ended up winning and bequeathing his dishes tour of the week to Dean. Sunday night was a mix of movies and popcorn while Tuesday was a board game night. On Wednesdays, finally, they always ordered from the Japanese caterer on the corner of the street and zapped between Netflix and YouTube until they were too tired to put away their plates and left them on the coffee table in the living room.

Dean stretched out at his desk before he got up. He quietly shut off his laptop and put down the glasses he used for work on top, massaging the back of his neck gently. When he turned off the light from his desk, his room was plunged into darkness and, as if to confirm the late hour, his belly began to grumble softly.

"Okay…" He sighed while putting a hand on his belly. It was time for him to return to the real world.

Outside, he heard Castiel moving a few pots and he smiled softly. He could always count on his friend to cook for them when he was too immersed in his own classes to care, and truly, Castiel was not such a bad cook as he claimed. Dean walked blindly to his door and opened it to a good smell of melted cheese. Growling with envy and a tenfold appetite, he approached the kitchen to find his roommate tidying up some kitchen utensils, the oven gently purring behind him. Dean leaned against the central island with a relaxed smile.

"What’s up, chief?" Dean asked, raising his voice in the hope of surprising Castiel.

The latter did not even jump, probably having heard him arrive without showing it. He put away the spatula he had in his hand before responding to Dean with a smile on his face.

"Four cheeses Mac’n’Cheese!" Castiel proudly announced, turning to him.

"Wow." Dean said, raising his eyebrows, truly surprised. "And what did I do to deserve one of my favorite comfort foods tonight?"

Castiel smiled even more and shrugged, returning to his storage. He took the time to rinse a knife before answering.

"You hardly left your room in the afternoon, I thought you might need a pick-me-up."

And it was as simple as that. It has now been 7 years since Dean and Castiel met, they had found each other at school and had not really left each other since. As a result, Castiel was obviously able to read Dean like an open book and the opposite was also true. They were confidants for each other, brothers almost, pillars on which to lean when everything went too fast around them. Dean and Castiel had actually painted the town red in high school before going to enter together into the terrifying life of a student or, for Castiel, an active worker. Above all, they had always been there for each other. Dean had been more than present during the divorce of Castiel’s parents and the ensuing family debacle, he had even taken his friend out of a very bad drug past for which Castiel would be forever grateful. Castiel, meanwhile, had supported Dean when Mary Winchester had lost her battle against a disease and John spent about most of his time at the bar, drowning his grief while his sons remained helpless at home. Dean no longer counted the number of times Castiel had welcomed him and Sam into his home simply to give them a break from everything else.

Such events bound destinies for a long time when they were lived like this. However, although Dean cherished his friendship with Castiel more than anything, he had to face reality about a year earlier. Dean was not particularly known for his long introspections, but he was obliged to admit after several months of living together that his friendship with Castiel had perhaps turned into a more concrete and disabling feeling in his situation.

Okay, maybe he had a thing for Castiel. A little bit. Okay, good time! He wasn’t even sure it was mutual, so he certainly wasn’t going to waste 7 years of friendship on a simple… feeling? For God’s sake, he had spent whole evenings struggling with this very question, thinking about it again and again until he got migraines, and he had finally come to the conclusion that if he did not have absolute confirmation of the reciprocity of his feelings, then he wouldn’t try anything. It may have been giving up without a fight, but whatever he had was too valuable to make decisions lightly. It was not even certain that Castiel liked men! Well, yes, perhaps, his friend qualified himself as"pansexual". What Dean always said to him was that it was just "being a fucking care bear, but more complicated, just to piss me off."

Anyway, after months of internal debate, Dean always found himself in the middle of that kitchen, with a best friend and roommate he loved a little more every day, but to which he had to continue pretending to maintain the ideal routine in which they had settled. Dean smiled tenderly at Castiel, who had now finished tidying up the kitchen and, realizing that he might have been staring at him for a little too long now, he sighed and went to the couch to choose their program.

They ate in a good mood in front of a horror film so lame that Dean was seized with a hysterical laugher in the middle and nearly choked on a macaroni. For dessert, Dean got up and came back with two ice creams — vanilla for him and a much more sophisticated taste for Castiel like wild mango or whatever — to finish their meal. Surprisingly, Dean was not particularly tired despite his long day of work and considering the energy that Castiel still had in front of the film, neither was his friend. When the credits began to scroll on the screen, Dean sighed.

"What time do you start tomorrow?" He asked in an innocent tone.

Castiel stretched out on the couch before falling back heavily into it.

"At 11:00, I’m closing." He said, grimacing. "But I won’t be spitting on some extra sleep, really."

Dean let out a contemplative "mmh" before turning to his friend.

"Does that mean you’re up for continuing the night a little longer? I’m starting late tomorrow too, and I admit that I’d like to enjoy the last few hours of the weekend without thinking about my damn essay." Dean pouted.

At these words, Castiel laughs softly and Dean already knew his answer by the expression of his face alone.

"What do you propose?" Castiel asked, raising a defiant eyebrow.

Dean took a short moment to think before his gaze landed on the drawer in which all their board games rested. Immediately, his brain set out to lead him towards an idea that would gradually stretch a malicious smile on his face. Of course, he had long established that he could not reveal his feelings to Castiel, but that did not mean that he could not take advantage of them here and there when the opportunity presented itself.

"A card game?" Dean suggested, turning an angelic face to Castiel again. "Do you know how to play poker?"

Castiel frowned and tilted his head slightly to the side, as was always the case when a situation confused him somehow.

"Uh… I can’t say I do, no. It always seemed rather complicated to me when I saw you playing that during parties." Castiel replied slowly, his blue and curious eyes fixed on Dean.

"It’s pretty simple once you understand the basics!" Dean assured, already bending over to open the drawer with his plan still in mind. "I can teach you if you want, it’ll save you from getting ripped off by Gabriel the next time we play."

As he hoped, these words seemed to unlock something in Castiel’s mind, for his friend straightened himself up with new interest before nodding.

"Okay, but only on one condition." He said, raising his eyebrows. "We don’t bet money. I already have to pay Charlie back because of our last night together."

Dean laughs softly at the mention of that stupid bet that Castiel had royally lost while he was reinstalling himself on the couch with the card game in hand.

"Okay, okay. That’s fine with me. But we still need to spice things up or poker is a lot less fun." He pretended to think for a moment under Castiel’s innocent gaze before resuming. "For lack of something better... we can consider a strip poker?"

As these words left his mouth, Dean felt his heart speed up in his chest. Of course, he had already seen Castiel half-naked many times before, and although he had always appreciated what he saw there, he had to admit that this context would be otherwise amusing. Nevertheless, Castiel remained forbidden and inexpressive so long before him that Dean quickly lost his smile.

"I mean, no… Of course not, I was joking. What-"

"Strip poker works for me." Castiel cut off.

His friend had answered so confidently that Dean was caught off guard for a moment before he could recover. Castiel agreed with his idea, really?

"But it’s quite uneven." Castiel replied, pouting. "You already know the rules, I’ll be naked in less than ten minutes."

That’s the idea, Dean thought. But as he still had compassion for Castiel, he looked around before he got up.

"Mix the cards, I’ll come back." He said to Castiel.

Quickly, he arrived in the kitchen and began searching in the cupboard just below the central island.

"Do we have any bottles left from Friday?" Dean asked as his eyes swept over the contents of the closet.

"I think Benny left a bottle of sherry, yes." Castiel replied from the living room.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. Sherry, seriously… Did Benny think he was a modern-day pirate or something?

"It’s an insult to call Sherry alcohol when you’re under 40, but… fine." Dean said while grabbing the said bottle before heading out in search of tumblers.

"It’s more of a set of brandy-cut wines, actually, but you did you know that-"

"Cas." Dean sighed again as he returned to the salon with his findings.

He did not need to look in the direction of Castiel to know that he had rolled his eyes heavily. Dean reinstalled himself in the sofa and placed the sherry bottle and the tumblers on the coffee table. He began his explanation while serving the first cup.

"Well, the rules are simple. If you lose a turn in poker, you take off one piece of clothing and the last one naked wins." He grabbed another tumbler. "However... Since I am an extremely nice and magnanimous teacher, we will have three jokers each." Dean pointed to the liquor bottle. "Therefore, if you lose a match, you have the right to choose to drink a shot bottom up rather than take off clothes. We’ll have three jokers each for the whole night. Is that all right, Mr. Know-it-all?"

Castiel did not pay attention to the comment and watched Dean pour the last shot with special attention. He seemed to be much more focused than he wanted to appear until then, and Dean restrained a smile. Castiel had always been a competitor.

"If the three jokers are only usable for the whole evening, then three is not enough." Castiel protested. "I really don’t know anything about it! Allow us at least five? Please?" He added with a more than pronounced pleading expression that came straight to Dean’s heart.

He rolled his eyes before taking out four new cups.

"Yeah, yeah, if you want. Five jokers each then, but don’t expect that to save you from not exposing those gorgeous leopard panties that I gave you for Thanksgiving last year." Dean replied with a mocking smile.

Castiel pushed him with his foot from the other end of the couch and kept his mouth shut on the fact that he, at least, was not knowingly buying Scooby-Doo underwear. Nevertheless, he let go of the remark and straightened himself up on the couch as Dean began to deal the cards. Judging by the smile on Dean’s face, he was more than confident.

* * *

Turns out Castiel was either a damn good liar or he had a freaking knack for poker. Dean continued to bitch in his corner while he was already in his underwear and socks on the couch, his five empty sherry glasses on the coffee table while three on Castiel’s side were still full. Not to mention the fact that Castiel was still perfectly dressed and even sprawled out among the blankets in a casual attitude that only offended Dean more.

He himself was curled up and kept staring at his cards with a sullen expression, alcohol already making him spin his head to make matters worse.

"You’re sulking." Castiel unnecessarily remarked as he was knocking down other cards on their improvised playground.

"I’m not- Damn it, seriously!" Dean suddenly exclaimed in a raging gesture as Castiel won that round again." Dude, I don’t have any more clothes to take anything off!"

Castiel raised an almost cruel eyebrow.

"You still have your socks. Why didn’t you take them off first anyway?" He asked, tilting his head one more time to the side.

Dean simply groaned as an answer and placed his card game with ill-humor on the armrest of the couch. The truth was that he had always been a little chilly in their apartment, whatever the temperature indicated by the thermometer, but he preferred to stand naked in front of Castiel ten times than to admit it in person. Eventually, he began to pull on his left sock reluctantly before letting the poor piece of cloth fall to the ground. If he got sick because of that damn game he started himself, he’d never play poker again.

By attending to his friend’s obvious bad faith, Castiel had to restrain a smile. Eventually, poker was quite instinctive according to him and he even enjoyed playing it now.

"We do one last game before we go to sleep?" Castiel asked, putting the cards together and mixing them again.

Dean sighed loudly.

"What, so I can go back to my room barefoot and bare-bottomed?" Dean grumbled.

Castiel rolled his eyes and began dealing the cards in silence, ignoring Dean’s bad loser attitude and his naked and shivering body before him for a moment. He briefly thought about an alternative before biting his inner cheek with apprehension considering to the direction in which his thoughts were going. Maybe these two sherry cups finally got to his brain... Castiel had never held his liquor very well. However, he was the first to be surprised — and mortified — by the forbidden words that came out of his mouth:

"I have another idea. For the last match, I’ll give you an extra joker." Castiel began, feeling a knot in his stomach as to the turn the events would soon take.

"Mmh?" Dean replied with a questioning look, his curiosity obviously bringing him a new interest.

"If I beat you again on this game…" He handed Dean a few cards, face down. "You will have the right to refuse to take your clothes off. But in that case, you will have to trust me and let me… challenge you?

Dean raised an eyebrow before turning completely to Castiel, sitting cross-legged on the couch. He remained silent for a moment before taking a deep breath and finally grabbing the cards that Castiel handed him.

"… Will I regret it again?" Dean asked seriously.

Castiel swallowed. He had no good answer to this question. Was he himself certain of what he was doing? Not at all. But he needed Dean to play tonight, because right now, he felt brave.

"No." He lied.

Dean seemed to gauge him for a moment before finally nodding. Thus, another game engaged in a silence filled with concentration. Both of them knew there was a real stake in this game even though Dean was advancing blindly this time. No matter the outcome of the game, he already knew that he would choose Castiel’s challenge, just because he was a player and possessed a curiosity far too strong for his own good. Moreover, this redness that he had thought had subtly appeared on Castiel’s face when he had imposed his condition did not cease to come to torture his mind. He needed to know.

Of course, as if it had been bound to happen, Dean would put his cards down on the couch just to see his chances of winning be wiped out by Castiel a few seconds later. His shoulders dropped heavily, the adrenaline of the game diminishing to give way to defeat. He did not say a word, hardly surprised though, and looked up at Castiel who offered him a compassionate smile. Dean sighed and clasped his hands before him, shrugging.

"Okay Doc Holliday, you got me cowboy…" Dean pouted. "Okay… Joker. What should I do?"

Castiel suddenly seemed nervous in front of him, which did not help Dean relax. He frowned slightly, uncertain, while Castiel laid all the cards on the table.

"I.... I need you to close your eyes. It has to be a surprise or I.... Anyway. Close your eyes please." Castiel stuttered in front of him.

Dean watched him for a moment without saying anything before finally taking a discreet breath and closing his eyes. As soon as the living room disappeared around him, Castiel’s beautiful face faded behind his eyelids as he tried to ignore his crazy heart beating in his chest. The atmosphere had suddenly become special in their apartment, and this since Castiel had brought up the challenge. Dean’s instincts were yelling at him that this was the ultimate time to trust his friend, because something important was going to happen. He could not explain it more than that, he knew it, that’s all.

Dean remained as calm as possible as he tried to listen to what was going on around him. In the first place, only Castiel’s quick breathing made itself heard while Dean remained straight in his place, gently squeezing his hands against each other to control the nerves that he felt rising in him. After a few seconds, he heard movement in front of him and felt the couch rise a little, as if his friend had just changed position. Suddenly, he felt this same rapid breath close to his face and frowned gently, confused. When he could endure it no longer, Dean opened his mouth slightly to ask the question that he was dying to ask before his lips were covered by warm, wet others. Sweet and yet trembling.

Dean opened wide, astonished eyes, in shock as his heart missed another beat. Immediately, he fell upon Castiel’s face, gently close to his own, and swallowed a surprised exclamation which had gone up his throat. The kiss was not really one while Castiel quickly stepped back with nervousness to look into Dean’s eyes, their faces still close and frozen in the moment. Dean looked at Castiel who was looking back at him and everything was crumbling around them in a silence filled with electricity and unspoken confusion. Dean felt like dying and being reborn at the same time, silently in that body that suddenly seemed so narrow to him.

"You…?" Dean whispered, even if he never managed to finish his sentence.

Castiel feverishly licked his lower lip before shaking his head imperceptibly, the face so devastated by the fear of rejection at the moment that Dean felt like he had fallen into his worst nightmare. He could not bear such an expression on Castiel’s face, Cas who had kissed him, Cas who was afraid of his reaction, Cas who cared for him right now. Castiel who loved him.

In a surge of combativeness and surely relief, Dean filled the space between their mouths again and slipped one of his hands to the back of Castiel’s neck to keep him close, preventing him from escaping this time. Once the surprise has passed for Castiel, Dean could almost see his whole body lighten up and melt into their shared kiss. This simple contact seemed to open so many doors that they were too blind to see before that Dean almost had his head spinning. Did Cas have at least as much desire as he had for him the whole time? He tightened his grip around his roommate’s body, he needed to hold on to something so he wouldn’t fall right away.

But he fell anyway when Castiel gently pushed him onto the sofa so that he lay down under him. Later that night he fell again into this large bed in Castiel's room, his lips unable to leave the body of the other as if he desired to make every inch of him feel loved. He fell and fell and fell all night long, tumbling down into the most exquisite and liberating of the falls as a smile split their two faces in the frenzy of the moment. Dean kept falling, but he didn’t do it alone, clinging to the one thing he had never hoped for in recent years and that he could finally touch with his fingers now.

Finally, he was unable to remain angry with Castiel for having beaten him at poker, just as he was unable to detach himself from him that night. As the sun’s rays filtered through the closed shutters of Castiel’s room, Dean gently caressed his lover’s face in the hollow of the pillow with a new, fascinated tenderness. He barely waited until Castiel opened his eyes to steal another kiss before whispering against his lips.

"Hey… I have no fucking idea what happened to my remaining sock yesterday."

When Castiel let out a hoarse chuckle before drawing him closer to himself, Dean promised to do everything to hear this sound every morning now. They were going to need more games night from now on…

* * * @winchester-reload

Yep, I’m late haha, sorry! It took me a while to write this one but no worries, I’ll post day 15 and day 16 today too. I’m really proud of this OS, don’t hesitate to come and talk about it with me in the comments!

You can find the whole series on Ao3

Tag list /!\ PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU WANT TO BE ADD TO (or removed from) THE TAG LIST so you won’t miss any updates.

@misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @styggtroll @thanks-tacos @petrichoravellichor @iamcharliebradburylevelperfect @ladywaywarddsc @hellfire37 @destiel-221b-sabriel @aloha-cowgirl @destielhoneybee @dysfunctional-destiel @ozonecologne @doofcas @castielrisingabove @zoerayne2426 @tibbinswrites @vicmc624 @thegirlofstarlight @berrieseveryday @staycejo1 @certaindeanwinchesterforcastiel @bab-spnfamily @lo-mindpalace

#suptober20 #destiel fanfiction #alternative universe #dean winchester #castiel #supernatural

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blissfulalchemist · 4 years

Note

💋 #48 for catraf

Thank you for sending this one in Kate. I hope you enjoy it!

48. One person has to bend down in order to kiss their partner, who is standing on their tip-toes to reach their partner’s.

The house wasn’t as grand as she had imagined it would be, still bigger than other houses in the Whitetails, just not as grand. Maybe that was her own perception of who Rafael was affecting the reality. In her mind he was someone that never seemed to fit a place like this, needed to live beyond these mountains where he could experience the culture he admired so much….and yet he always ended up back here for some reason or another, Catlina had just never thought to ask why. Cat paused looking from the treeline, listening for the planes overhead, not that any of them could spot her or the car from up there, still she parked a ways away walking the rest of the way, bag in hand.

Silence fell around the house, Cat taking a deep breath, the snapping of twigs filling the space as she approached the door. She knocked, looking over her shoulder, Lance was starting to make her too paranoid, no one would think to look for her. There was no answer and she knocked again louder, eyes searching for a doorbell. Still nothing. Cat pursed her lips, crossing her arms, “You said you’d be here, you jerk,” she mumbled under her breath. She leaned against the wall of the house, “Maybe you’re in the back.”

Cat walked around looking for any sign of movement, stretching to peek into the higher placed windows. By the time Cat got to the back door, she knocked once more knowing there would be no answer. You’re never late Captain, she thought as she tested the door knob, Or am I just stupid early. The knob gave way, Cat’s eyes going wide, “Please let that just be my brute strength.” The sound of a jet engine over head had Cat quickly duck for cover into the house shutting the door behind her, heart racing.

Cat blinked a few times, her eyes adjusting to the lower light as she breathed, counting slowly. She found herself in his kitchen, a small table near her with the rest of the house open to her. Cat placed the bag on the small table stepping further in, smiling as she passed, the whole place in perfect order. If it weren’t for the small touches that indicated something falling to the wayside for a few hours Cat would have thought it a Better Homes and Garden style house.

She ran her fingers over the end table and couch, this was his….all of it a part of him somehow. So much of it familiar, knowing who Raf was, and yet so much a surprise as it felt like she’d invaded his mind in some way. He kept a good front, much like this living room, but if one looked closer and you could see past it, like the books their full subjects laid out before her or the CDs stacked ever so, the order of them to his own liking and a mystery to her. The cello, packed away in its case, sat upright in a corner with a chair placed next to it along with a music stand.

Her shoes padded softly as she let herself come near it, the case opening with ease. Cat inhaled sharply as she took in the glossy wood, the silver strings with their dull shine and the ends of them coated in the white powder that seemed to never leave no matter how much one cleaned. The neck showed signs of needing repolishing from the amount of times that his left hand must have run up and down it. The bow, strapped to the front of the case, had its hair loosened and made her fingertips have a slight stick after touching them, before she moved them over to the strings, plucking them softly. Her memories of which string was what note lost to her, but the sound they brought to her ears gave indication that they were all in tune with how they harmonized with each other.

“And here I thought you’d be more into painting and drawing more,” she whispered, closing the case, “but I’ve yet to see an easel anywhere.” Cat made her way over to the stereo, touching each case, many of them unknown to her, from their style to their names in languages she couldn’t comprehend. She pushed play, looking over the singular case sitting on top of it. The starting piano sounded like one she’d hear play in movies set in medieval times or the seventeen hundreds, corsets and ball gowns flitting through her mind. It was slower of a song with what may have been a guitar chiming in before a woman’s voice filled the room.

The imagery of masquerade balls and people dancing with smiles beneath their masks dissipated as the song continued. Cat couldn’t place the language or even begin to understand each individual word within it, but she felt herself become unmoving as the music became the only thing in that house. Her heart sank, finding herself clutching the CD case to her chest, the droplets of water falling onto her hands slowly. None of it registered as real, losing herself in the sounds of what she guessed was a saxophone before the woman’s voice started once more. Her chest ached, the cool metal on her wrist turned to ice, her throat closed in on itself, she wanted nothing more than to scream.

Cry out.

Grief

This was grief.

The same emotions she’d pushed back long ago now spilling through the cracks, her knees weakening beneath her. The song was coming to its close and she was once again able to feel the buttons on the stereo hitting pause as the final notes played. Her breathing like gasps, fingertips lingering, the tears coming in waves as she worked to stop them.

“Lamento Della Ninfa,” his voice, while soft, startled her, turning as she wiped away at her face, seeing Raf lean against the wall, eyes looking her over.

“Wh-Uhm,” Cat shook her head, swallowing, “When did you get here?” She looked down, hair blocking her face from his eyes seeming to look right through her.

He gave a small shrug, stepping closer to her, “Not that long ago. Maybe about halfway through the song.” Raf reached for her hand, uncurling her fingers still gripping the case, “Are you okay?”

Far from it, “Yeah,” Cat cleared her throat, “Yeah I am.”

He gave her a small smile, “You’re a bad liar you know that?”

“Only because everyone likes to assume I’m not lying,” the notes of the song were finally leaving her mind, feeling the way his hand, warm and comforting, cupped her cheek.

“Cat,” he said softly, thumb wiping away the last of lingering tears, “you know you can talk to me about anything right?”

She nodded, pulling away from him, hand gripping her wrist that held the leather bracelet, “Where’s the bathroom? I should freshen up.” He looked at her as if to say more before letting out a low breath, nodding, showing her way to a small guest bathroom. Cat let out a gasp as she leaned against the door. He saw her cry, saw as that song gripped her, tearing out the pieces of her heart she forced away before even coming to Montana. “You can talk to me about anything,”, Anything but that. She looked down to the ring, turning it to read the inscription, In Brightest Day. In Blackest Night, “In fearful day, in raging night,” she let out a sigh, “Telling them changes everything,” Cat took the bracelet off placing it secure in her pocket, turning the water on. She dabbed at her face with the warm water, putting on her best face, standing straighter. Raf never needed to know, for all he knew she just cried because of its beauty and not the emotions being locked away once more.

Once satisfied she made her way back out to the house, hearing him move about the kitchen area. He gave her a smile as she stepped through, “I want to assume you came in through the back door.” She nodded, “Really have to fix that now. Damn wolverine,” she gave a light laugh as he held up a box claiming to be an easy installation door knob, “Why I was running a bit late.”

Cat laughed, taking the box from him, “Oh is that why,” she looked it over, “We could probably do this right now if you’d like.”

“Don’t have the right screwdriver,” he pointed out, “I’ll do it tomorrow after I get one from Wes later tonight.”

She looked the box over, “Oh you don’t need it, per se,” she moved the box away from him as Raf made a grab for it, “So long as you have some scissors or some sturdy metal that we can bend, or hell a flat head screwdriver could work.”

“No,” he smiled reaching for it again, “There’s a reason it calls for you to use that specific kind of tool.”

Cat giggled stepping up onto the chair closest to the wall, “It’s highly suggested,” she lifted the box above her head, just out of his grasp, “Besides if it was really required that would be discrimination against poor people.”

Raf paused, “What do you mean discrimination? Everyone should have a tool set available to them, Conejito,” he huffed as the box moved higher, Cat standing on her toes, “Give me the box back please.”

She shook her head, smiling, “If that’s true about the tools Mr. Estrada, then where’s your tool set?”

She smirked, tilting her head, “You might get to see it later if you just give me the damn box back.” Cat bit her lower lip, standing as high as she could as he made one more grab for the box.

She laughed, “I see why Wes likes being so tall now,” she taunted, “It’s a real power trip.”

“Pretty sure he didn’t get a say in the matter, much like you.”

“Rude.”

“Now can you please give me the box back?”

Raf held his hand out, “For a kiss,” Cat requested, standing as tall as she could.

He sighed, “You’re not making it fair you know?”

“Big guy like you,” she bent down, “I’m sure you can figure out something.”

She tapped her lips, leaning down more, keeping her balance on her toes, as Raf moved to meet her halfway. Their lips met and her heart raced, feeling the softness of his, her head spinning as her arms lowered resting on his shoulders….she couldn’t ever get enough of him. She’d lost count of the amount of times they kissed and still each one felt like that first one he reciprocated. Cat’s eyes opened quickly as the box left her hand, his arm wrapping around her waist, “Thank you for that,” Raf said triumphantly, lifting her off the chair, the middle of her body landing on his shoulder. Cat’s mouth fell open as he carried her out of the kitchen, “I said I would do it tomorrow and that’s that.”

“Raf,” Cat whined, “This isn’t fair and you know it,” she hit his back lightly, “Now put me down so I can be a man and fix your damn door knob.”

“You saying I’m not man enough,” he placed her on the sofa, the box sitting on the end table, straddling her, “I’m sure I can change your mind on that right now.”

Cat rolled her eyes, “I’m not saying that, but you have the help, you might as well use it in case something goes wrong.” Cat’s instincts to roll her hips against him threatened to take over as they looked at each other, Cat swallowing, “I’m just trying to be nice.”

“How much time do you really have for the day?” His fingers caressing her neck and collarbone, “Might have to prioritize.”

“I always make sure I have the most time I can spend with you,” the blood running to her cheeks, her breathing becoming slower, “So plenty of time to do as much as you want.”

Raf smiled, “Alright,” he lifted himself off of her, “Let me go and get what you need.”

Cat scoffed, “You tried to lie to me?”

“I like to call it prioritizing,” he laughed, making his way to a closet near the front of the house, “Didn’t want to waste time with a house project,” he pulled out a case filled with the basics one would need, “Let’s get to work shall we.”

The ordeal proved to be a little more complicated than was advertised on its packaging. It did, after some bickering on what the instructions meant, get to a point where eventually only one pair of hands was needed and given the small space was left to Cat to complete. The house didn’t stay silent as Raf took to practicing, some of the tunes familiar to Cat as she hummed along, tightening the last of the screws. She stood testing out the door, making sure it was as it should be before watching as Raf played.

Eyes entranced by the way his arms moved gracefully, the wings on his shoulders beating in time to the music, lifting him with the swell of the notes. The way his fingers moved along the neck of the instrument, the way his hand seemed to vibrate, elongating the notes that were held longer than others, mesmerizing. The slight sway of his body as he played, the curls falling into his eyes, closed as he concentrated, seeming to play this piece from memory, lost in the sounds, doing what Cat could only assume was connecting to the music, Raf’s mind leaving his body.

Sooner than Cat would have liked, he stopped, the piece coming to a close. Raf smiled, his dark brown eyes sparkling looking through his fallen hair, “No applause?”

Cat rolled her eyes as he laughed, making her way towards him. Raf stood readying to put the instrument away, “No,” Cat placed her hand on his, “Play it one more time?” He looked down at her, “Please,” she whispered. He nodded, taking a seat, Cat grabbing a pillow, sitting behind the chair, head resting against the back of it.

“Anything specific?”

“No,” she closed her eyes, “Just something beautiful.” Raf gave a quick nod, clearing his throat, getting himself into position. The notes were low to start, slow and long, the vibrations running along her spine. Cat smiled as the piece picked up and she could feel Raf becoming lost again, letting herself get lost along with him. The notes came to an end too quickly, Cat’s heart sinking. Her eyes remained closed as she whispered, “One more, Rafael, please. Just one more.”

Let’s get lost for just a little bit longer….

#x: top chefs #brains and disaster #I finished something for once

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nicketynic · 4 years

Text

no lie in his fire (1/2)

Nameless orphan to indentured battlemage, Jon Snow knew better than to ever cast eyes above his station. No pretty face was worth losing his heart when his head would be quick to follow. What he didn't count on was a princess as unexpectedly brave in love as she was in peril.

A continuation of this drabble, originally intended for @jonsadungeonsanddrabbles before all the computer trouble.

Some would say that Jon had been born lucky, if only for the magic singing in his veins, but what good was magic if it got him nowhere with no name, no family, no legacy to speak of? Even his spark was considered unlucky at best, accursed at its worst, as baffling as it was for fire to be his element when he was born in the dead of winter, during the longest and darkest night of the year.

An unnamed, fevered, Northern-featured girl had appeared that night on the steps to the Temple of the Most Devout, heavy in labor, delivering a healthy new life at the cost of her own. She survived just long enough to give him a name, Jon, the sisters adding “Snow” for the raging blizzard that prevented a healer or midwife from being summoned. The girl’s name was either lost in the shuffle or just never known, the last rites thereafter anonymous and perfunctory, her newborn shunted off to an orphanage before they even finished.

His caretakers were relieved to find him a quiet, easy babe. Until the day his blankets mysteriously began to singe. He was a calm, obedient toddler, no disruption found until he came down with a horrible fever and scorch marks were found around his sickbed. He grew into a solitary, unobtrusive child, until the day an older boy’s roughhousing dislocated his shoulder, and his panic and pain set fire to the bully’s clothing.

While the North mainly served itself autonomously outside warfare and taxes, orphanages were imperially controlled, all the better to snatch up children with any hint of magic or dragon blood. As an imperial ward, there was little preamble about Jon’s transfer into the custody of the nearest mage tower, and from there forward he belonged not to himself, but the Empire.

Raised a battlemage, a living weapon, he was lucky enough that his spark kept him from being shipped off to Essos and the endless battlefield that was Valyrian conquest. What use would he be, after all, on the front lines where armies were commanded from dragonback and bloodlines were bred specifically for fire magic? Better he be a prize and a novelty for the Westerosi towers, his power and potential bound tightly under the rigid control of the Adepts, harnessed and shaped under their demanding tutelage.

Every moment Jon Snow breathed, his magic was growing and changing, stirring restlessly beneath his skin every waking second. Of course he would obey, everything he’d ever known dedicated to keeping caged the spark turned hungry, burning flame. Obey through every grueling exercise and test, practice and practice under his fingers blistered and his magic ran dry, because the magic writhed beneath his skin like a living, ravenous thing. He obeyed because the first and last time he hesitated had been disastrous.

Deployed to the Wall to turn the tide on a wilding incursion, the reality of turning his flame on living people made him hesitate, and that hesitation wasn’t reciprocated on the other side, black brothers falling all around him in a massive attack of northern ice magic. He reacted instead of obeying, and the fearful inferno he released that day would haunt him until the end of his days.

Sent back to the capital and kept on an even shorter leash for his failure, it was purely for the aesthetic and prestige that he was paraded out to serve in the honor guard escorting the King in the North’s entourage to the Red Keep. Jon obeyed, polishing and affixing his armor, marching stalwart and silent among the other soldiers and ignoring the pompous prattling from the Grand Adept serving as his taskmaster.

Jon knew his place, knew his training, keeping his eyes on the ground until he was forced to do otherwise. The Crownsguard had grown lazy enough in their formation to require course correction before they all stumbled and fell in their obnoxiously ostentatious armor.

As he glared, huffed, and righted himself after being bumped by the idiots beside him (they were the royal guard of a Baratheon Archon holding his position by virtue of his Targaryen blood, why were they wearing those garish lion helms?), he caught his first glimpse of her, curt and fleeting as it was.

She was strikingly beautiful, lithe and graceful as a swan, auburn tresses falling like liquid fire. She stole his breath, shook something deep inside him, but he turned his mind firmly back to his duty. The procession continued, but he never truly resettled, a spike of unease shooting through him as crimson cloaks and snarling golden helms began to close ranks.

The turn came quickly. Crownsguard turned on Winterguard, outnumbering the northern retinue three times over. The Grand Adept barked orders at Jon, urging him to join the fray, on the wrong side .

It seemed that Pycelle, treacherous worm, had forgotten a few key facts, specifically that Jon Snow had winter in his blood and fire at his core. It was not the worm, but the wyrm, who brought fire to heel, and Jon’s flame burned bright and fierce. Fire obeyed dragons. Fire would only burn a lion, not bend for him- especially a lion pretending to be a stag playing at being a dragon. And Jon had been a diligent student, he knew his histories well. The North had only submitted once in millenia, kneeling to dragons and dragons alone. While the rest of Westeros bent the knee to the stag by right of dragon blood and war-might, the quiet wolf did so out of friendship and fraternity.

The North was doggedly loyal, never wavering. Warring against an unworthy dragon to replace him with another of the same blood hardly counted as betrayal when all knew Aerys II was a mad butcher undeserving of his Archonship. The Emperor had certainly agreed, so long as Baratheon’s fealty remained true. The North was loyal to the dragon, the wolf was loyal to the stag, and a peace retinue under imperial guest-right was being slaughtered before his eyes.

When Jon made his decision, it was the easiest he ever made.

The ice in his veins remained strong, even as his rage grew into something feral and potent, swelling with alarming quickness. He found it centering on the collar hidden beneath his armor, layered with spell upon spell, of both protection and restraint. His blood roared in his ears, his heart pounding louder than an kettledrum, and one by one, the enchantments began to pop and burst. His helm and gorget cracked and clattered uselessly to the ground, exposing the red-hot metal resting snug around his throat. Pauldron, vambraces, and gauntlets were all quick to follow, all heavy and unwieldy, all equally bespelled.

His flame sparked and grew, alighting his hands, his arms, the pupils of his eyes. Steam rose from his skin, and finally, finally! liquid metal sluggishly melted away from his neck under the molten force of his magic. Left behind was a thick band of finely worked leather, runed and snug beneath his larynx. The keystone to the whole contraption, but hardly worth his attention as he prepared to unleash an inferno on every flash of crimson and gold in his periphery.

It was an echoing roar of defiance that stayed his hand, if only for a moment, King Eddard wielded the legendary Ice with a wolfish ferocity, but he greatly outmanned and quick to lose any ground he gained. Their eyes met and connected, like recognizing like as Eddard took in long, lean features and dark winter eyes. Recognizing a fellow son of the North, the flagging king took a chance and trusted.

“Protect your princess! Go!”

His teleportation spells were rusty but functional, his memories thereafter a whirlwind as he wrapped himself protectively around the princess, burned a sigil into the nearest stone, and started a journey there was no coming back from.

Over time, reluctant companions became friends and then lovers. Jon Snow proved to be very lucky indeed- not for the magic in his blood, but for the place he somehow, someway, had etched into the heart of a princess.

#jon x sansa #jonsa #asoiaf #my fic

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imagineclaireandjamie · 5 years

Note

Any more As Yet Unread or HRH?

Here is the next part of HRH, anon.

Kudos to @claryclark, @smashing-teacups, and @notevenjokingfic for not letting me quit on this thing, and for helping me find a voice with it again.

;nsfw under the cut

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part XVII: Stables

Folded against the warmth of Fraser’s leather jacket with her legs on either side of his hips, it was easy for Claire to pretend. That they were not going home (to the Queen’s summer residence), that they were just out for another ride. That the rest of the world just existed as transient wax figures, melting and insignificant. That their world existed solely in the cabin and that it waited for them just around the bend (the bed, the kitchen, the spot for two in front of the fireplace, the shower with the slightly mildewed curtain, the soft planks of the small deck off the rear of the structure).

They were a couple meant not to be seen, not to be heard, but just to exist together as one. Claire indulged the fantasy as she closed her eyes, felt his fingers wind through hers when her grip slackened around his waist.

“Ye alright?” he asked, grip pulsing as he slowed to let another vehicle pass on the narrow road. She turned her hand so they were palm to palm. She pressed the very tip of her index finger to the thin, throbbing skin of his wrist.

“Better than just fine,” she said, attempting to sound strong, reassured, confident (and failing in actually being any of those things).

He lifted her hand, kissed the place where a fortune teller’s thumbs would divine a destiny for her if she were the kind of woman to frequent such a place, and then carefully situated it over his stomach. “No’ much further.”

She closed her eyes, drawing herself to Fraser’s back as tightly as possible. The nearness of home was precisely what she feared most.

Claire’s first glimpse of the palace’s exterior alone was as effective as a bucket of ice water sluicing down her spine. The sensation jarred her out of the two and a half days of their cabin tryst and back to reality. She tucked herself further into the warmth of his jacket as they came around a bend and through a grove of trees, trying not to count their remaining minutes of anonymity.

The motorcycle ground to a stop, kicking up an opaque earth-flavored plume of beige dust around them. It was like the world knew they needed obscurity just a few moments longer.

With her cheek against his back, Claire concentrated on the indistinct perimeter of gravel and unkempt clover (it had overtaken the grass in a whimsical, fairytale kind of way). After a series of heartbeats, long enough that Jamie wondered if he had imagined the whole thing (the weekend – their trip to the market, a car ride, cooking side by side, excavating the shape of her body from beneath bedsheets), Claire moved.

He reached for her waist to steady her as she threw one leg over the motorcycle. His hand fit there just as it had over and over again that weekend. The pleasure and warmth of the touch, though, made her heart flutter and then morph into the ghost it would be until she could see him again.

“Tomorrow?” she inquired hopefully, letting a finger catch a curl just above his collar as her eyes darted around the stables. All it would take was the attention of some well-meaning employee who had become a weekend straggler for the plume of dust to settle, for things to change. She was fully aware of this fact when she touched him (hand hesitating only momentarily), but Fraser could sense the conflict in her. It dwelled in the oaky bite of her amber eyes, between the arches of her well-manicured eyebrows, in the tremor in her fingers as she touched his nape. To be caught would mean there was no need to skulk around with one another, to make plans under the cover of a dusky dinner time after everyone had left for the evening. Being caught would be freedom itself.

But no one was there to catch them, to disrupt her pre-packaged life and his mundane post-war subsistence.

Claire’s other hand curled around Fraser’s shoulder. She longed to feel his heartbeat under her cheek as she slept, to wake to his hulking form over her as he kissed the delicate, almost-avian swoop of her neck.

‘Come find us,’ she thought somewhat ruefully, able to picture completely the face of someone on her staff seeing her like this. ‘See us. Have the bravery to open your bloody mouth. Tell everyone the queen’s shagging the Crown Equerry.’

“Tomorrow we can ride,” she supplied. “Find a quiet corner of the grounds.”

A pause to ready him for a confession.

“I want to be with you more than just in secret, but we…”

Fraser’s affirmative sound was low, gravely in his throat before he turned to excavate her handbag from the depths of the motorcycle’s saddle bag. Suddenly having no choice but to acknowledge the impending loss bubbling a quiet brew in her belly, Claire tightened her grip on him.

‘Stay, stay, stay with me,’ she yearned to plea. ‘Just come up there with me. To my room, those halls. They can’t say ‘no’ to me. They won’t say ‘no’ to me. You aren’t ready, and I know that. You never will be ready, the people of this country will never be ready, so let’s do it. Now. Why wait?’

“This weekend,” Fraser began as he pushed an errant curl from the center of her forehead, “has been sae perfect, Claire.”

“I…”

Her voice trailed, fading into the narrow plume of exhaust that was slithering out of the motorcycle’s tailpipe. Words felt just as toxic, and she choked not on tears, but the thought of that world back there that they had only just started to construct.

Jamie could not look at her just then, could not face her. His eyes did not dart around the perimeter as hers had, but instead they found a spot alongside the building where the clover was growing wild. He fixed his eyes there as his hand fell away.

“This was the best weekend of my life,” she whispered as a bookend to make her feelings clear (they could not be any clearer). She bent to touch his stubbled cheek with her lips one final time.

He made a sound, low and indistinct (certain, reciprocal).

‘Again with that noise,’ she thought. It was a white-hot tone originating from somewhere ancient, surely not from him. (But he didn’t need to say anything at all.)

His vocal cords were paralyzed, useless appendages for a beat, until he croaked, “Me too.”

The sun had begun its descent, the bottom curve just barely tucked beneath the line of the horizon. The weekend was at its end, the summer-bloated sun finally giving way to the chill of nightfall.

It was time to go (to return to a place she did not belong, never belonged, but she would somehow remake in time – remake it to create a space shaped for him, shaped for her), so she bade him farewell in the only way she knew how. It was the only way that would stop her from clearing the lump in her throat and asking him to take her upstairs. She kissed him (hard, firm, fully). The shape of his mouth, the taste of it, the responsiveness of it from that first night that felt like an occurrence centuries old just then were all memories. She knew it (that mouth, his breath, what it did to her, what it did to him), but she wanted the memory to be fresh. A breathless, aching, swollen reminder of it to carry with her on the short walk back to her cage. So he urged his lips apart, though but he did not kiss her back (could not kiss her back). His lips had died a slow death as they crossed the city limits, the realization dawning in him that this right here (born in the stables, tended on horseback, blooming in the cabin) was sacrosanct, cloistered, and perfect.

And it would change.

Finally, he confirmed their plans with only the barest, whispered “tomorrow.”

Like a gymnast fallen off her apparatus (the tight line of a balance beam to walk, the unforgiving plane of the vault that threatened her, the uneven bars with a backwards and blind approach), she attempted her maneuver again.

A kiss to draw from Fraser the shine of the man that had pressed her against the wall of a cabin shower just ninety minutes earlier.

The man who looked up at her under a torrent of water, and declared with a blind authoritativeness, “You’re mine. I’m yours.”

The man who made her whimper until she wept with need.

The man who took the mundane parts of a world it was easy for her to forget even existed (the unity in a simple pre-work chore of making a bed scented like their lovemaking, in shopping with a squeaky trolly for produce and tinned fruits, in filling of the tank on a vehicle as she dabbed a fresh coat of lipstick in the rearview mirror with the preternatural tingle of anticipation that in short order he would suck it clean off her mouth) and made it a technicolor dreamworld.

This time, his lips animated and molded to hers.

He kissed her back.

Long and hard; searing, but in no way final.

It ceased to be an exchange between lovers and instead became self preservation.

Breathless, Claire was the one to pull away, lips heavy and bright with a swelling rush of blood. (A good victory, they both concluded.)

“Tomorrow,” he parroted, his voice firmer.

Claire wiped her mouth with her sleeve, the glistening evidence of his kiss melting into a secret known only to the exceptionally discrete fibers of her blouse.

“I love you, Fraser.”

His hand fell from her hip to the curve of her bottom. He smiled, tilting his head. “And I love you.”

And with that, he watched her walk. Her smart trousers were a little worse for wear (creased, dusty) and her hair whipped free in the light breeze as she unbound it from her scarf. Though she was heading back towards the mottled brick and arched entryways of the castle that she had often described as her cage, she looked lighter somehow. Like it was not a burden, but instead a challenge.

“Claire,” he called, not bothering to examine his surroundings yet again for company.

For only a second, she peeked at him over her shoulder and ruffled her hair with a roving hand. She smiled, waved, blew him a kiss.

Okay. A look. It was all he needed. Yes, okay.

He nodded and watched her turn again.

As she neared the palace, he realized for the first time that while he had her Friday night through Sunday evening, he would be well and truly alone on Sunday night. It gave him a sudden, sinking appreciation for the things that she had said she would never be able to give him.

A Sunday dinner, a quiet discussion in bed about what the week ahead would hold.

Doing dishes side by side (he was an egalitarian sort, afterall, being raised by a father who did not mind “women’s work” and was the brother of a woman fiercely invested in equal sharing of a household’s day-to-day maintenance).

The radio would be turned low to a station that did not quite come in.

To the crackling song, they would hum or sing, sway in time to a familiar rhythm.

Early in the evening, he would make love to her with his hands revealing all the hills and valleys and quiet lochs of her, the sounds that he could elicit with a touch, a caress, a kiss, a lick.

The news would come on the radio.

They would listen half-heartedly, playing naked with a deck of cards so fresh that they snapped and cracked when shuffled.

He would tell her everything.

(That he loved her. That he was damaged, and how he came to be that way. That something about her made him not see the world through a pinhole for the first time in a very long time. That he was so glad that he could tell the world about them, about her - a woman so insightful and funny without meaning to be that it stole his breath.)

He would tell her everything.

And without him asking (he never would), she would take it from him, bear it for not more than a moment on her narrow shoulders, and then let it go for the both of them.

And then he would make the paintbrush of her hips move in arcs across their shared bed linens again. To create a piece of abstract art that only they could know. He would take her at his leisure, sinking his fingertips into the modeling clay of her hips and arse and covering the softest parts of her with his mouth again and again, just as he had that first time.

When it was time for them to grow their family, he would measure her belly with his hands and lips. Rub her feet after a long afternoon. He would perhaps take a second job. He would insist on being in the room when she went into labor, to hold her hand and brush the curls from her forehead, to catch her eye and promise that it would be okay.

She was almost to the door of the palace in her wretched, wrecked pants.

He blinked.

A searing burn and then an ache: They would not have those things.

He did not begrudge her it. (Her life. Her birthright.) He could not because he had known the weight of her title the moment he saw her turn around in the stables that night. He knew that it was unfair to resent a status that she could neither dispose of easily or help. But the depth with which the realization struck him – fast, hot, like a poker.

Clearing his throat, he drove away well before he could see her cross the threshold of her cage.

In bed that night, simultaneously too hot and too cold (sweating, shivering), he tried to ignore the things that took him over.

The hollowness in his chest.

Their first night together when Claire mumbled in her sleep and fussed with the covers, a sheet slipping free from her form to expose the soft peak of a breast.

The ridiculous amount of butter and jam she smeared on her toast, and the way she turned a spoon about her tea cup three times counterclockwise and once clockwise.

The splitting apart of her face as he commented on the jam, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as one small hand offered him a bite.

The hardening of his cock, unbidden, at the thought of her whispering to him in the night about the ways that he made her ache, the confession that she had touched herself thinking of him before their weekend together.

The way she had marveled at the market over the mundanity of things like tinned peaches and stale, pre-packaged biscuits.

When he woke it was as though he had not slept at all.

He was living with a secret so broad, growing at all times, that it made him wonder if his body had seams. A zip along his spine and at the back of his calves. A line of snaps along the curve of his skull that he could open at his leisure to relieve the pressure.

By Monday morning, a cold shower and aspirin were not enough to staunch the bulbous ache growing in his head.

He spent the day doing paperwork and waiting for someone to declare knowledge of his weekend activities.

When finally asked (“what did ye get up to this weekend, boss?”), he made bland comments about some time at a family cabin.

He wondered, tearing into a ham sandwich and apple at lunch, whether he felt somewhat like what a robber feels. The knowledge of a heist, clandestine and forbidden, becoming a persistent niggling begging to break free. Wiping crumbs from the front of his shirt, he saw her.

Mrs. Fitz.

With her watery eyes and toddling steps.

He knew (just knew) what was in the note clutched in her pale fingers before he opened it.

Her writing. The Queen’s writing. Not Claire’s writing.

Been detained for now.

Tuesday?

It is supposed to be a nice night.

Perhaps a good night for a ride?

& always,

He ran a finger along the clean line where the note had been folded. Where her fingers had pressed down.

Was she hesitating to meet? Had regret consumed her such that she had drifted?

Jamie cursed under his breath, closing the note again and nodding to Mrs. Fitz. Meeting her swimming, faded denim eyes was surprisingly easy, though she did not have the glass face of her Queen. He could not tell what was clicking away behind her inscrutable, lined face. He nodded. She took back the note, an act that sent his heart teetering over the edge.

“Did she say when?” His voice was coarse, somehow disembodied as he acknowledged the truth of their relationship to someone outside of it for the first time.

“Tuesday,” she said evenly, tucking the note into the hip pocket of her smartly-tailored and unseasonably thick wool jacket.

“Aye,” he ground out. “Tuesday.”

But Tuesday brought another visit from Mrs. Fitz.

A second note.

This one signed much the same, though with an apology (“Duty calls and I am so very sorry, Fraser”).

And then her promise of Wednesday.

And when Wednesday came, she came with company.

An ambassador from a Canadian province or mayor of a Canadian city, he was not sure which, because the sound of his teeth grinding together transformed the introduction into mere white noise. He looked at her, shaking the man’s hand. She was detached but for a flicker, a nod, the press of her palm against back just above the beltline as they inspected the Queen’s stables.

And then, she was proper as a nation could expect of its Queen.

“Colonel Fraser,” she started primly, flicking a stray bit of hay from the elbow of her riding jacket. “I trust that we have a horse to accommodate our guest?”

“Aye, we do, ma’am.”

As he helped her into the saddle, his hand sculpted itself to the shape of her calf. He smirked at the sharp intake of her breath, the quick dart of her eyes.

“It’s no’ verra queenly to touch yer stable lad’s arse.”

“It was not your arse,” she hissed, wrestling the reins from his hand and fighting the urge to slap his hand away as it traveled over the back of her boot to her ankle.

“Ye’ve got a good fit for a saddle here, ma’am,” Fraser called a little too loudly, his eyes sparkling a little too brightly.

“James Fraser–”

“I’d take ye right here if we werena wi’ an uninvited guest.” He reveled in the way her cheeks pinked a glorious, embarrassed rose color.

“Fraser.” She was only halfway annoyed, and he was sustained by the fact that he could recognize as much from her face, from the way she shifted slightly in the saddle.

The steed upon which the Queen’s guest was mounted came ambling over.

Giving a weak, two-fingered salute, Fraser bade her a pleasant ride, and retreated to his office.

It wasn’t until Thursday that she made good on the promise to visit. It was late. Well after the sinking of the sun and the warming up of a veritable orchestra of summertime insects, and long after any reasonable employee of the Crown had departed for the day.

It was the kind of visit that they had planned when they parted. Alone and untethered to any sort of duty. At a distance, Claire paused to watch Fraser work. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and a bead of sweat was coursing down his temple. He looked roguish in a movie star way, a little too intense in his work and maybe a bit dangerous.

“You have not shaved this week, have you?” she finally asked, leaning against the gate of an empty stall. “I thought as much when I saw you last night.”

Jamie did not look to her, but his shoulders squared at the soft, conciliatory lilt of her attempt at banter.

“Are you cross with me, Fraser? Will you look at me so I can tell?” She paused (one one thousand, two one thousand, three–), and his head fell as he rested the pitchfork against the wall. “I know I said Monday, and it’s Thursday. So I could not blame you if–”

“Ye verra well could, though,” he interrupted as he pulled shut the feed room door and turned to her. “Blame me that is. It’s no’ like I didna ken that ye have duties when I took up wi’ ye.”

“You ‘took up’ with me?” she asked, incredulity sneaking into her voice like a teenager out past curfew.

“Ye ken what I mean.”

“Are you very cross with me?”

“No, no’ cross wi’ ye, Claire.” It was only half of a lie, for ‘cross’ was different than ‘frustrated with all of this need for you that lives in my guts and makes it hard to breathe.’ Unabashed, he looked her up and down once, twice, three times. His tongue darted out, inhabited with a mind not entirely its own, and he wet his lips. “More cross wi’ the world, yer majesty, for endeavorin’ to keep us parted.”

He bowed with an exaggerated depth. The gesture drew mad, barking laughter from the pit of her stomach and and she strode towards him. She was up and into his arms before she could realize that he was closing the distance between them more quickly than her legs could carry her. With a ragged breath, Fraser consumed anything else she could have wanted to say. Wound tight around him (arms, legs), she first tasted the salt at the corner of his mouth.

“I wasna kiddin’ when I said it–”

“Here?” she breathed into his mouth as he backed them through one of the open gates into an empty stall.

“Aye,” he confirmed, dropping to his knees and easing her onto her back. She was magnetic, undeniable and perfect. Opening her mouth to lodge some mannerly protest that she did not truly mean, Fraser worked his fingers between fabric and flesh, over the plane of her stomach, and between her legs.

“I want ye right here.”

She made a sound and fisted his shirt in her hands.

“And from the feel of ye, ye want me to take ye here just fine.”

The space between her brows melted. In its place was a quiet, determined crease as she ground down against his fingers.

“I have been wanting this…” She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, sank her teeth into it only for a moment before continuing as a breathy, but somehow full-formed version of herself. “Since Sunday night.”

He took it all in, because their three days apart seemed something like a premonition of a longer separation.

His shirt went taut against his back as she gathered fistfuls of fabric and pulled him closer.

“I’ve wanted ye right here in the stables since ye came clambering in wi’ yer tight pants and pert wee arse. Where I’ve wanted to have ye since I first saw ye that night.” Shaking her head as if to say “talk less,” Claire whimpered and let his shirt free so she could reach for his belt. Just as her fingers slipped the leather free from the buckle, he whispered, “Ye’re mine, ye ken that, aye?”

“And you are mine,” she managed, a bit breathless as his thick, sure ring finger sank into her.

“Mine. Mine alone, now and forever,” he continued, one hand going for the waistband of her riding pants and rolling them down. After a breath and rather indelicate removal of her pants, he looked at her like she was sunlight and summertime itself. With a careful flick of her wrist, she finally freed him of his pants and took him in hand. It didn’t strike her to marvel at the fact that he had somehow toed off his shoes and only had to arch and kick to free his legs from his work pants. All that mattered was the promised stretch of completion, the weight of him over her, a coarse whisper in her ear to make her moan and writhe.

The Lord’s name tumbled in vain from his lips as he looked down between them where they had both been bared. Her hand moved again and he shook his head, taking her wrist and firmly holding it over her head, pressing it down into the straw “I mean to use ye hard, my Sassenach.”

“Do it,” she goaded him, smirking and curling her fingers around the thumb he had pressed into the palm of her hand. “Do it now, and don’t be gentle.”

Saying it twice was unnecessary, for he reached between them then and guided himself into her an easy, unyielding thrust. The sense memory of each time they had made love flooded back to her, and when he moved again she choked on her own breath and arched up into him.

Without her needing to ask him to make good on his promise to use her hard, he did. Thighs falling further open, she took in his frustration and gave him her own. When he took her mouth, she sank her teeth into his lower lip and carved half-moons into his shoulder with her fingernails.

He possessed her then, body and soul. He could see it in her eyes, the way her mouth started to form requests he was already well on his way to fulfill (harder, faster, more), but melted into the sound of her moan as he did the very things she was primed to beg him to do.

When he pulled out suddenly, the wet length of his cock against her thigh as he released her wrist, she started to ask what he was doing, but was interrupted by two firm fingers inside of her.

“Come for me,” he implored roughly, his fingers searching and stroking her with no small amount of skill. She was just about to unleash something more coarse than anything she had ever said (“then keep fucking me properly”) when Fraser stroked up, the pads of his fingertips beckoning her to rise (up, up, up). Her eyes blistered with hot tears as she slapped her hands uselessly down into the straw alongside her thighs.

Arching up towards him (into the sensation, accepting it with a clenched belly and slackened jaw), she wondered absently if they would always be like this. As his thumb moved in an arc over her, his assault became twofold, and she concluded that fate had surely mapped out an entire eternity of this for them. He leaned into kiss her gasping, agape mouth, and felt the first tremoring promise of an orgasm ripple down her spine and into his hand.

“Claire,” he whispered, stricken at the sight of her only half-naked yet entirely undone and lovely as she could be. He drew everything she gave from her, and she gave it all. “I’ve missed ye so.”

Her insides had given way to contradiction. A primal urge to beg him to stop. A contradictory need to let him know he could never stop. A desire to touch the planes of his shoulders as he coaxed her trembling body to completion. A premonition that touching him would sear her hand, sending her into an abyss from which she surely could never return.

All she managed was a wilting plea: “please.”

He slid into her just as purposefully as he had at their first joining, but more gently, reverent somehow. His thumb did not lose pace or rhythm, but she looked up at him almost desperately as he pressed forward, slid back, and started again.

More. Never stop. I love you.

It was the work of four thrusts to finally finish her, and she felt him everywhere.

(Rushing out of the pads of her fingers. Swelling in her belly. Shimmering up her spine. Clouding her mind. Burning behind her eyeballs and blinding her. Pulsating between her legs. Simmering on her tongue.)

She clutched him, dragged him down, and sank her teeth into his shoulder to keep from screaming. In the basest part of himself, he wanted her screams to bound off the walls and make his eardrums ache. He wanted her nails to trace furrows into his already-scarred back.

Mine. Yours. Together.

He spilled into her just as her high ebbed into delirious, taffy-thick stupor. For her part, Claire cupped the back of his head as he finished and her forehead became the home for his as he bowed his head. Shifting just enough so that he would not crush her, he fell onto her and heaved a contented sigh.

“Job well done,” she mumbled after a not insignificant time time had passed with the melding of breath and slowing of hearts. She kissed his temple, tasting salt and letting her eyes close.

“I work hard in yer stables, yer majesty.”

She chuckled, carding her fingers into his damp curls and not bothering to wonder how exactly she would make her way back up to the palace without looking like she had just been rogered six ways to Sunday in a pile of straw.

It could have been years that they laid there, skin drying and arousal fading, but it was closer to half an hour.

“It is not entirely uncomfortable, this,” she mumbled, head indicating the pile of straw where they were sprawled out together.

“It’s no’ just good for soakin’ up horse piss, though I suspect ye’ll be pickin’ bits out of your arse for a week.” She laughed, deciding that she loved him even when he was unbridled of any sense of propriety and allowed himself to be crass. Reaching between them, he groaned, “Insatiable.”

She hummed, shrugging noncommittally as she took him into her hand.

One could reasonably anticipate that this would be how HM Queen Claire would be caught with the Crown Equerry. With their pants in a pile on the floor of the stables and the stable boy buried to the hilt inside of the Queen, there would be little for them to do other than deny what was plainly true. But they would not be caught making love on the stable floor, nor would they be caught cleaning up and kissing before the Queen walked back to the palace for the night. No one heard the Queen moan or beg, scream, or cry out. No one heard the Crown Equerry staking his claim to the woman he loved, giving in to a second, lazy, fatigued round as HM Queen Claire wrapped her mouth around him.

No. This would not be it – this moment, their reconnection, their bodies’ work to release the frustration of separation wrought by nothing more than circumstance.

But as James Fraser curled his fingers into his beloved’s curls, mumbled her name, and let all worldly thoughts fade, neither knew that they had precious few hours of privacy remaining.

Because their cover was about to be spectacularly blown.

#;mod Kate #HRH #jamie x claire #;nsfw

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sasorikigai · 4 years

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Tricky Life Questions || @sonxflight || accepting

12. How can I make someone else happy?

“Happiness is something that I wanted all along, for it had been my unreachable life goal ever since my family and clan were taken away from me. Could you imagine how beautiful our world would be if everyone of us could spend some time everyday and do one thing that lift someone up in the midst of their misery? For it may not simply be a feel good emotion, but a weapon to fight all of the negativity in the cruelty of reality, which I very well struggle with. When I grapple with such emotion daily, difficult would be an understatement attempting to make someone else happy. However, I have found my chronic depression, and emotional trauma have significantly been mitigated through kindness, which certainly has helped me to cope better and combat negative emotions. I would like to think I express my love through affectionate gestures and words of poetic lyricism. I would like to believe that you have been a frequent recipient of my devotive love.”

25. What is true freedom? Does it exist?

“It is interesting that many of the freedoms we seek today are seen as ends in themselves, as a final goal to be attained. It’s as though we think that once our particular freedom is achieved, all our problems will be solved. Why? Because we’ll have freedom! But freedom from what? And freedom to do or be what? Our hearts tend to see and desire something it cannot live without. So we continue to sink into our respective vices, struggles with them, so if our hearts are not changed, neither will our behavior change. I believe that true freedom begins in the heart, and although I have gone through so much changes in how I uphold myself, I believe my heart still remains relatively resolute. Yet, in all of this, the human heart remains free in one regard: free to choose whatever it desires. But the human heart could be so easily corrupted and enslaved by evil, just like mine used to be. Perhaps if I truly let go of all my guilt and remorse and dedicate and devote my life towards the good for the Earthrealm in solemn sacrifice... Perhaps I will be able to earn true freedom.”

30. If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you do today?

“The optimum circumstance of my passing would place me in a battlefield, fighting for a cause that would defend the sanctity and sustenance of the Earthrealm as I would drown in streams of blood, but if such honor would not be bestowed upon me... However it may cause unbearable and seemingly eternal pain and affliction, I would like to die in your arms. At least, in such selfish way, that I would not feel alone as I am being lulled into a sempiternal oblivion. Perhaps then, the Heavens will grant me a spectral vision, a speck of hope amidst the solar flare, instead of bone-gnawing, flesh-melting hellfire as I would be transported to the realm where my family and clan members dwell....”

37. What is the first thought you have in the morning and the last thought you have at night?

“The morning is akin to the deepening the keel of a boat so I can sail through life without its winds knocking you over. And what better time when the mind and brain is like a sponge, during the first minutes after waking? So I'll often try to find a sense of peace, something relaxed, safe, not at war with anything or anyone, happiness, that there is enough, fortunate, contented things going in the world around me, and love, including feeling cared about, compassion and kindness - and once they are found, I will let these sink in. Often, the nighttime tends to bring more torment and negativity, as my brain seems to be much better at focusing on negatives, but at least I do not let them to ruminate and carry over to the next day, or even worse, attempt to suppress them. I would also pertinently worry of your wellbeing, however unfortunate or fortunate the circumstances will be, that we had to be parted during the night. Even in distress, I find such hard-to-bend fundamentality changes when another body is pressed against my side. For there would be less of a sleep deprivation and more tender caress of impassioned love that will drown my doubts and fears and coax me to sleep.”

44. Is there such a thing as absolute truth?

“I find the statement "There exists an absolute truth," almost trivial in its simplicity. Suppose we assert the negation of the statement, that is, that there is no such thing as absolute truth. By making that assertion, we claim that the sentence "There exists no absolute truth" is absolutely true. The statement itself is self-contradictory, so its negation, "There exists an absolute truth," is true. This proof applies only to logic. It does not tell us whether any particular statement other than itself is true. It does not prove the existence (or non-existence) of God, the devil, heaven, hell, or afterlife for all it matters. Neither does it assert that we can always ascertain the truth or falsity of any arbitrary statement. Speaking from my experiences, what I used to believe as the ultimate truth was shattered in the time’s revelation as my resolute perception over people, events and consequences have all changed. I only believe love as absolute truth; as long as there is sacredness, reciprocated trust and solemnity of devotion.”

#✗ obsessive cathartic (headcanon)#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ seeking reconciliation with his own humanity (iii)#(relationships; samurai jack)#sonxflight

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zayneternal · 6 years

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《 Sunday Is For The Boy 》

summary ↠ Sunday nights are easily your single most favorite time of the whole week. Getting lost in the pages of your favorite book while responsibility is a thing of the past and schedules are to be worried about tomorrow. Jimin coming home early from practice and sleepily demanding your affection only makes this particular Sunday night worth leaning into all the more.

genre ↠ oh the FLUFF member ↠ park jimin warnings ↠ clingy baby word count ↠ 2.9k

moodboard from Pintrest || No request, I’m just feeling uwu soft for Jimin today, so here’s this. It’s pointless and fluffy. Enjoy.

Sunday nights.

It’s the solitary time when everything behind you is finally settling itself into the past week, and the events of the upcoming haven’t quite begun. They always feel the most peaceful, the few blissful hours of mindless attention you’re allowed to give to whatever you want always leaving you with a moment’s respite to look forward too amidst the hectic and grueling schedule of this fall semester. The hours of the passing days seem to be continuously eaten by the ravenous jaws of term papers, group projects, and covered shifts at your part time on campus, though you’re not entirely bitter towards your tight slate.

Having a boyfriend as busy as Jimin makes being someone with too much free time on their hands the equivalent of a wandering beggar, constantly searching for something to fill the vast holes of time he spends at rehearsal, or the even wider gaps of distance he spends running halfway around the world breaking hearts and making history. That’s an alternate reality that you never want to experience, much more content to be worn and weary at the end of each week if only to make these brief moments of rest all the more sweet. You’ve come to quite enjoy being as booked as Jimin: it doesn’t allow near as much time to notice when he’s not there, even at times like this when you know he’s just across the city at the studio, scheduled to be in the country for at least another month before flying off to places unknown once again.

But these thoughts are far from you at the moment, your eyes gripped between the smoothly inked pages of the book laying in your lap, printed words painting a vivid wall of a world around you, encasing your attentions inside and away from the worries of the week. This is usually how you spend your Sunday’s, raptured by the written word or occasionally sucked into an addicting binge on Netflix that you’ve been dying to finish. The novel currently splayed over your blanketed legs, however, has demanded its finishing since the moment you opened the cover, the characters and plot just too unique and immersive to put down.

Your fingers fiddle anxiously along the edge of the page, eyes unable to absorb the scene fast enough as you race through the paragraph, itching to turn the leaf and discover who the true identity of the antagonist is. The breath in your chest is audibly quickening, the eloquently drawn descriptions leaving you yearning to read on as the intensely arcing plot draws deaf ears to the sound of the front door swinging open and then shut with a dull bang.

You’re blindly unaware of the body kicking their shoes off at the door and shrugging their jacket away from the firm shape of shoulders, a taxed sigh passing through parted lips as they do so. Your eyes continue to ski down the slopes of words, eagerly drinking in the last few sentences before the climax--

“Mhh-hm.” The abrupt sound of a throat being cleared to the side of you jolts you away from the story, imaginary walls tumbling down around you as you flit wide eyes from the pages, turning with surprise to find Jimin, weary and hunched, standing just behind the couch.

“Jimin,” you breathe, relieved yet slightly confused. “Don’t you have rehearsal?” Scrunching your eyebrows, you bend to check the time on your phone, affirming that it’s much earlier than normal for Jimin to be anywhere but the studio.

“Hmmm,” Jimin hums in response, not really confirming or denying your question as he shuffles forward a few steps, stopping instead by the arm of your chair as he looks down at you, blond strands splayed in disarray, flopping loosely across his forehead. You gently fold the corner of your page, closing the cover with minute reluctance as you set it to the side of the armchair.

You look up at Jimin with raised brows for another moment, watching his serenely tired face, washed with the remnants of practice, expecting him to say something in explanation, but nothing comes. Instead, a slow, lopsided grin begins to take shape along the corners of his mouth, smooth face bending from obvious weariness into a placid gloss as he reaches down with one of his soft hands to slip his fingers between yours.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, tugging with enough gentle force to pull your body from the hug of the chair, your sock clad feet shuffling along the floor after him as he yanks you towards the couch, his own solid stature falling easily back against the cushions as you follow suit, left with no choice but to be lead atop his chest. You release a hushed yelp of surprise as you’re pulled against him, his hand leaving yours to instead aid his other in snaking around your waist, his head falling forward into the crook of your neck and shoulder, his plush lips pressing chastely upon the small sliver of skin exposed under your sweater.

You sigh into his touch, your book long forgotten amidst the arms of your lover as a shy smile fights its way onto your lips, your own head leaning against his. One of your hands raises to run up the curve of his neck, fingers fitting themselves in the mess of his hair while your nails slowly trail along his scalp. A low moan of contentment seeps from Jimin’s throat, vibrating against you as his grip tightens, fingers rubbing over the fabric of your top.

“You don’t have rehearsal?” you decide to ask again, gently against his soft hair, still somehow sweet smelling after all morning at work. He slowly shakes his head into your shoulder, his lips pressing on your skin once more.

“Tae wasn’t feeling well,” he explains unhurriedly, shifting slightly on the cushion to better fit you against him. “We got the rest of the day off.”

You hum in understanding, nodding as you continue to stroke gentle circles at the nape of his neck. “You didn’t want to go get some sleep at the dorms?” You shift your head to try and get a look at his face, but he only nuzzles further into you, wrapping the full length of his arms around your waist.

“I wanted to be with you,” he states quietly, his shoulders rising and falling at a sedated pace as your fingers move. You can’t help the baby smile that tugs at your lips, urging you to turn and press them against the crown of Jimin’s head with a lingering kiss, the reciprocating pressure of his embrace sending a warm tingle down your spine.

“Are you hungry?” you ask after a moment of blithe silence. He shakes his head into your neck, the warmth of his skin brushing yours.

“Hmmm,” you hum in thought. “Do you want to sleep?” Again, he shakes his head. “Do you want to do anything?” You lightly chuckle down at him, amused by his rooted, baby nature.

There’s a moment of silence, after which you assume Jimin isn’t planning on answering, so you begin to shift your weight, preparing to move off of him in an attempt to find something to pass the time when Jimin’s arms squeeze you back into his chest, his fingers fisting around the hem of your shirt as his nose nuzzles against the line of your collar bone, cool breath fanning along your skin. “Let’s watch a movie, jagi.”

“A movie?” you repeat, a little surprised by his odd request. Movies weren’t usually his thing, though at the mention of it, your heart is swelling, movie nights being one of the purest forms of comfort to you. You can’t think of a better way to spend your night in, and the fact that Jimin is asking to willingly participate only makes you warmer. “Okay, we can do that.”

“Can we watch it in your room?” he asks with the slightest whine in his voice, the end of his words turning up in an endearing and adorable manner that shouldn’t be allowed to come out of those lips.

You huff with a fond chuckle, pecking against the top of his head one last time. “Sure, babe.” You’re about to slip off of his lap, reaching your feet to the floor when Jimin’s arm is suddenly scooping under the bend of your legs, his other curling around the small of your back as he adeptly rises from the couch carrying you bridal style like it’s nothing to his weary limbs. A squeal escapes your lips as your hands flatten on his chest, steadying yourself from the sudden change of position, your wide eyes flying to Jimin’s to find his face alight with a boyish grin, crescent eyes squinting with delight as he laughs, turning and scampering off down the corridor with you hooked tightly in his arms.

“Jimin!” you reprimand, your hands holding onto the fabric of his shirt, wrinkling the material between the pressure of your fingers as you bounce along the hall, the bell-like giggles bubbling from Jimin’s chest leaving you dumbfounded as to where this sudden burst of energy has come from.

He rounds the corner to your bedroom, running into the dimly lit space before lithely tossing you from his arms and onto the plush mattress of the bed, a muted “oof” exhaling from your lungs as you make contact with the pile of decorative pillows. You push yourself up to the headboard, tossing a stray pillow that’s gotten in your way to the floor before you shoot a wide glare at Jimin, blowing a piece of fallen hair from your face.

“What?” he asks innocently, holding his stomach as a myriad of sweetly crafted giggles expels into the room.

“I don’t remember asking to be abducted,” you emphasize, reaching your hands up to stuff your wild strands into a messily wound bun as you roll your eyes. Jimin coos, feigning sympathy as he steps forward to you, his hand outstretched.

“Aw, is my baby mad at me?” he teases, his bottom lip jutting out with a dramatic pout. You turn your body from him with an indignant huff as his hand reaches for you, his arm stalling mid air as a slow, enamored grin steals away his lips. Suddenly, he’s bounding over the bed, his arms encircling you as he tugs your bodies into the mound of pillows, plush comfort blanketing where he has you captured, his strong grip holding you fast against him.

“Jimin!” you squeal in surprise, your hands splaying across the planes of his chest as you fight the relentless affection he’s stippling you with, plump pout puckered and peppering feathery kisses all over your face, your cheeks, your forehead, your nose, your jaw, and anywhere else he can reach.

“I’m sorry, yeobo,” he mewls, pressing his cheek to your hair as he squeezes you against him, your hands locked between the walls of your chests. “Forgive me?” Before you have time to answer, Jimin is back to showering you in kisses, his mouth hovering over every inch of skin above the collar of your sweater, the feel of his smile obvious against your neck as you begin to giggle into his shoulder, the tickling strands of his hair and the ministrations of his lips leaving you a pool of honey laughter.

“Jimiiiin,” you whine, shuffling in his grip as his laughter begins to softly mix with yours, the sound of it blithe. “Just pick a movie, you idiot.” You eventually manage to wriggle free of his hands and roll away from him, breathing heavily as you lay back against the headboard, watching with a blissful grin as Jimin slides from the bed and wanders to the stand sitting under the hanging TV against the opposite wall. He crouches there, sifting through your collection of various classics, romcoms, horror thrillers, and series, allowing you to admire the natural beauty of him for a quiet moment, grinning lopsidedly as his sweet face turns to hold up different selections, asking for your approval.

Eventually, you both decide on an old favorite of yours, an easy going comedy with an equally interesting plot, and Jimin slides it into the player, waiting for the beginning previews to appear before he turns and races back to the bed. Just before he makes a move to get in, however, he shifts and reaches for the bottom drawer of your dresser where he knows a few of his clothing items are stored for nights just like this one. He yanks out a darkly colored fabric before he begins changing.

The previews momentarily forgotten, your wandering eyes turn with your body to the side to watch as Jimin peels the material of his dark jeans from his muscular legs, allowing you a delicious view of his porcelain skin and the shape of his pert bottom rounded under the tight fit of his boxers before he tugs up a pair of sweatpants, the band sitting low on his jutting hips. His hands grip the hem of his dark shirt, before he pulls it up and over his head, discarding it along with pants on the floor as he opts to remain shirtless, much to your approval, your fingers already itching to trace countless, mindless patterns against the warm, smooth skin.

When he turns back to find you with your head leant in your hand, admiring the view, he mirrors your teasing smile, wiggling his brows at you before you roll your eyes, blushing hard at his seductive tactics as you giggle. He approaches the bed swiftly, peeling back the cozy comforter before he slides himself underneath it, casting a glance your way as he awaits you to do the same. You comply easily, silently thanking yourself for already having changed into a soft sweater and cotton shorts earlier in the evening as you fold your legs under the warm blanket, sighing into the cocoon of comfort.

Jimin wastes no time now, finally having you all to himself as he easily finds your body under the covers, his strong arms coiling around your waist as he pulls you into his side, the two of you meeting in the middle of the plush mattress. One of his arms remains tightly wound across the small of your back, curling you into his body, as his other hand snakes around to find the web of your fingers, slowly fitting his own between them as he rests your entwined embrace against the muscle of his smooth stomach. You hum in contentment, turning to gaze up at Jimin as you lay in his arms, the homeliness of them so familiar. He meets your gaze, hazelnut irises flitting glossily between yours as his lips twitch with a soft grin. You mirror his smile as he leans in, planting a slow and gentle kiss upon the jut of your lips as you sigh, the warmth spreading down your spine only melting you further into the lull of his hold.

As he pulls away, you fit your head in the juncture of his solid shoulder, the hand that isn’t held by Jimin’s curling around the side of his own back, searching for the line of his spine as your fingers begin to run lethargic tracks along it, reveling in the reverberating hum of gratification that rumbles through his chest.

The movie begins to play, then, and the night is ethereal. You half pay attention to what’s going on screen as you steep in the feeling of Jimin’s body against yours, smiling sedately to yourself at the sound of his squeaking laughter echoing around the room at every comical moment, his habit of needing to touch something when he laughs holding fast with every squeeze of his hand around yours or his arm around your waist. Your fingers continue to trail lazy lines across his back, your lips pecking soft affection against the rise of his collarbone whenever the urge strikes you, tingling when you feel his lips reciprocate in lingering issuances atop your head.

Halfway through the film, the both of you have slipped from sitting upright to splaying among the pillows, Jimin’s head still elevated enough to see the glowing plot play out on the TV. He seem’s to be enjoying himself, eyes blinking slowly, happily, an ever-present expression of contentment gracing his sharp face as his fingers dance lullingly over the fabric of your shoulder. Your eyes are drooping, now, your head laid bare against the plane of Jimin’s pectoral, your arm thrown loosely over his midsection as your fingers curl around his side.

As you struggle to keep your eyes open, desperate to enjoy these precious moments alone with Jimin, his simple grace and beauty so profound to you, he glances down at your sleepy face, smirking amusedly as his hand raises to thumb across your cheek. “Go to sleep, baby. It’s okay.” He bends to run his lips along your forehead, the brushing of them so tender.

“I can’t...don’t want to--miss you,” you mumble incoherently, squeezing around him as you shift impossibly closer.

You keen at the sensation of his chest rumbling with laughter under you, his thumb continuing to caress the skin of your face as he whispers, “I forgot to tell you. We have tomorrow off too. I promise I’ll still be here when you wake up, jagiya. Just go to sleep, now.”

Your lazy grin is unmistakable as you take in his words, your hazy head not too far gone yet to register the happiness they bring you. With this newfound comfort hanging over the both of you, you allow your eyes to drift shut, the warm and familiar scent of Jimin wafting around you as you relax into the peace and serenity of your Sunday night.

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